What we are seeking so frantically elsewhere may turn out to be the horse we have been riding all along.
O the joy of the strong-brawn'd fighter, towering in the arena in perfect condition, conscious of power, thirsting to meet his opponent.
This is what you should do: love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to everyone that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men. . . re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss what insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem.
Happiness, not in another place but this place. . . not for another hour, but this hour.
Keep your face always toward the sunshine - and shadows will fall behind you.
Every hour of every day is an unspeakably perfect miracle.
We were together. I forget the rest.
Without the knowledge of the true number of the people, as a principle, the whole scope and use of keeping bills of birth and burials is impaired; wherefore by laborious conjectures and calculations to deduce the number of people from the births and burials, may be ingenious, but very preposterous.
There is a technical solution to every political problem.
Imagine that each time you inhale, that the universe is breathing into you, and as you exhale it is breathing out of you.
But grief is a walk alone. Others can be there, and listen. But you will walk alone down your own path, at your own pace, with your sheared-off pain, your raw wounds, you denial, anger, and bitter loss. You'll come to your own peace, hopefully, but it will be on your own, in your own time.