When we are conscious, we’re consistent. When we are unconscious, we’re predictable.
It is a thin and inconsequential book, the one that success writes. Failure, by comparison, is a playwright’s dream—dark, depthless and quiveringly quiet, like Robert Frost’s woods or Paul Simon’s blacked-out bathroom.
If I do not desire anything and I am not afraid of anything, then the mind is quiet. Not asleep or chewing its cud, but alert, watchful and ready. Like a top-of-class majordomo.
Sane is the man who does not think when there is no necessity for thought. Sanity has never been found at the top of the news order. Some say it’s rare as rubies.
When I am still, I am home.