The great philosophers are poets who believe in the reality of their poems.

Wanderer, your footsteps are the road, and nothing more; wanderer, there is no road, the road is made by walking. By walking one makes the road, and upon glancing behind one sees the path. . .

Travelers, there is no path, paths are made by walking.

My soul is not asleep. It is awake, wide awake. It neither sleeps nor dreams, but watches, its eyes wide open far-off things, and listens at the shores of the great silence.

Beyond living and dreaming there is something more important: waking up.

I thought my fire was out, and stirred the ashes…. I burnt my fingers.

Traveler, there is no path, the path must be forged as you walk.

I dreamt -- marvellous error! -- that I had a beehive here inside my heart. And the golden bees were making white combs and sweet honey from my old failures.

Under all that we think, lives all we believe, like the ultimate veil of our spirits

What the poet is searching for is not the fundamental I but the deep you.

Avoid pulpits, platforms, stages and pedestals. Keep to the hard ground. It is the only way you can judge your approximate status as a man.

thinking about tracking. . . . Sometime in grade school, already your fate was settled, your socialclass was established for the rest of your life.

Everyone believes very easily whatever he fears or desires.

Only a very bad theologian would confuse the certainty that follows revelation with the truths that are revealed. They are entirely different things.

there they laugh: they do not understand me; I am not the mouth for these ears.

No mighty trance, or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.

Do what moves you and makes you smile and the "good" will follow.

Everything is always a little surreal.

The hardship of living in a refugee camp made me psychologically strong.

I think every great champion has a bad night.

With her braided hair and white dress, she seemed to glow in the moonlight.