The day of battle dawned pink as the fresh-bitten thigh of a maiden.

No word matters. But man forgets reality and remembers words.

Once a Buddha, always a Buddha, Sam. Dust off some of your old parables. You have about fifteen minutes.' Sam held out his hand. "Give me some tobacco and a paper.

Why could you not have left me as I was, in the sea of being?""Because the world has need of your humility, your piety, your great teaching and your Machiavellian scheming.

The four points of the compass be logic, knowledge, wisdom and the unknown....To bow before the one is to lose sight of the three.

I'm very gullible when it comes to my own words. I believe everything I say, though I know I am a liar.

I'm very gullible when it comes to my own words. I believe everything I say, though I know I'm a liar.

You are a fool to speak of last great battles, Sam, for the last great battle is always the next one.

But I recall the springtime of the world as though it were yesterday—those days when we rode together to battle, and those nights when we shook the stars loose from the fresh-painted skies!

Siddhartha considered the ways of the demon, and in that moment he struck.

Premature independence is the daughter of conceit.

I fear the many faces, many personalities in me. Sometimes I fail to understand my self and become deceived by my various selves.

It gave an appalling idea of the value of an hour, and I thought I could never waste one again without remorse and terror.

So, a word to all you Femin-Idi-Amins: Stop “liberating” moms by trying tomake them join the workforce. They’re already doing the job that God putthem here to do: Everything.

We grow weary of those things (and perhaps soonest) which we most desire.

Indifference to all the refinements of life--it's really shocking. Just Calvinism, that's all. Calvinism without the excuse of Calvin's theology.

I love making people who already hate me hate me more.

You have no idea what a long-legged gal can do without doing anything.

But men labor under a mistake. The better part of the man is soon plowed into the soil for compost.

Artists are mystics rather than rationalists. They leap to conclusions that logic cannot reach.