If you hate a person, you hate something in him that is part of yourself. What isn't part of ourselves doesn't disturb us.

Within you there is a stillness and sanctuary to which you can retreat at any time and be yourself

I have always believed, and I still believe, that whatever good or bad fortune may come our way we can always give it meaning and transform it into something of value.

Some of us think holding on makes us strong; but sometimes it is letting go.

When you like someone, you like them in spite of their faults. When you love someone, you love them with their faults.

The bird fights its way out of the egg. The egg is the world. Who would be born must first destroy a world. The bird flies to God. The God's name is Abraxas.

I live in my dreams — that's what you sense. Other people live in dreams, but not in their own. That's the difference.

Knowledge can be communicated, but not wisdom. One can find it, live it, be fortified by it, do wonders through it, but one cannot communicate and teach it.

I have been and still am a seeker, but I have ceased to question stars and books; I have begun to listen to the teaching my blood whispers to me.

Whoever wants music instead of noise, joy instead of pleasure, soul instead of gold, creative work instead of business, passion instead of foolery, finds no home in this trivial world of ours.

You have to try the impossible to achieve the possible

Thus every action must be due to one or other of seven causes: chance, nature, compulsion, habit, reasoning, anger, or appetite.

A sunny, happy day is beautiful, but when it's moody, and storm is coming, there's an energy in the air.

Pleasure and pain spring not so much from the nature of things, as from our manner of considering them. Pleasure, especially, is never an invariable effect of particular circumstances.

The pain of losing is diverting. So is the thrill of winning. Winning, however, is lonelier, as those you've won money from are not likely to commiserate with you. Winning takes getting used to.

Perhaps I'm dead. Perhaps this is all it will be. The living will carry on in their world – touching, walking. And I'll continue in this empty world, tapping soundlessly on the glass between us.

For a while, I thought a lot about lineage. Where do I belong? Who am I standing next to?

I find words really hard.

The practice of employing metaphor and image and composition and linguistic choices to move the reader through the content.

Instead of fretting about getting everything done, why not simply accept that being alive means having things to do? Then drop into full engagement with whatever you're doing, and let the worry go.

The book, Max on Life, is really kind of a second chance to answer these questions.