I learned. In being humble I’d have it all. A brand new way to live, that love’s not what you have but what you give. And the Art of Love is who you share it with.
Because one believes in oneself, one does not try to convince others.
Because one is content with oneself, one does not need others’ approval.
Because one accepts oneself, the whole world accepts him or her.
People always think that happiness is a faraway thing…something complicated and hard to get. Yet, what little things can make it up; a place of shelter when it rains - a cup of strong hot coffee when you’re blue; for a man, a cigarette for contentment; a book to read when you’re alone - just to be with someone you love. Those things make happiness.
Can you remember? When we thought
the poets taught how to live?
Suffering is the substance of life and the root of personality, for it is only suffering that makes us persons.
We’ve created a culture that fetishizes the new(s), and we forget the wealth of human knowledge, wisdom, and transcendence that lives in the annals of what we call “history” – art, literature, philosophy, and so many things that are both timeless and incredibly timely. Our presentism bias – anchored in the belief that if it isn’t at the top of Google, it doesn’t matter, and if it isn’t Googleable at all, it doesn’t exist – perpetuates our arrogance that no one has ever grappled with the issues we’re grappling with. Which of course is tragically untrue.
Relationship is surely the mirror in which you discover yourself.
Happiness is the consequence of personal effort. You fight for it, strive for it, insist upon it, and sometimes even travel around the world looking for it. You have to participate relentlessly in the manifestations of your own blessings. And once you have achieved a state of happiness, you must never become lax about maintaining it. You must make a mighty effort to keep swimming upward into that happiness forever, to stay afloat on top of it.
Just as it is known
That an image of one’s face is seen
Depending on a mirror
But does not really exist as a face,
So the conception of “I” exists
Dependent on mind and body,
But like the image of a face
The “I” does not at all exist as its own reality.
I have always been amazed at the way an ordinary observer lends so much more credence and attaches so much more importance to waking events than to those occurring in dreams. It is because man, when he ceases to sleep, is above all the plaything of his memory and in its normal state takes pleasure in weakly retracing for him the circumstances of the dream, in stripping it of any real importance and in dismissing the only determinant from a point where he thinks he has left it a few hours before: this firm hope, this concern.
We are instinctively more inclined to hope than to fear; just as our eyes turn of themselves towards light rather than darkness.
We are members of one great body. Nature planted in us a mutual love, and fitted us for a social life. We must consider that we were born for the good of the whole.
The more he artificially idealizes himself, the more exaggeratedly he criticizes himself. He alternates between the extremes of “I am everything” and “i am nothing”.
No matter what anyone says, no matter the excuse or explanation, whatever a person does in the end is what he intended to do all along.