Bapu Gandhi said, ‘All religions are true.’ I just want to love God.
All living things contain a measure of madness that moves them in strange, sometimes inexplicable ways.
Doesn't the telling of something always become a story?
The reason death sticks so closely to life isn't biological necessity- its envy. Life is so beautiful that death has fallen in love with it, a jealous, possessive love that grabs at what it can.
Why can we throw a question further than we can pull in an answer?
Faith in God is an opening up, a letting go, a deep trust, a free act of love - but sometimes it was so hard to love.
يمكن أن يعتاد المرء على أي شيء، بما في ذلك القتل.
We are all born like Catholics . . . in limbo, without religion.
There are animals we haven't stopped by. Don't think they're harmless. Life will defend itself no matter how small it is.
The main battlefield for good is not the open ground of the public arena but the small clearing of each heart. Meanwhile, the lot of widows and homeless children is very hard, and it is to their defen...
So you want another story?Uhh... no. We would like to know what really happened.Doesn't the telling of something always become a story?Uhh... perhaps in English. In Japanese a story would have an elem...
She looked beautiful. And sad. For she was leaving India,India of the heat and monsoons, of rice fields and the Cauvery River, of coastlines and stone temples, ofbullock carts and colourful trucks, of...
Readers will easily recognize the cover of a book they've read, but in a cafe that man over there, is that...is that...well, it's hard to tell - doesn't he have long hair? - oh, he's gone.
Quickly you make rash decisions. You dismiss your last allies: hope and trust. There, you've defeated yourself. Fear, which is but an impression, has triumphed over you.
Loneliness comes up to him like a sniffing dog. It circles him insistently. He waves it away, but it refuses to leave him alone.
Khi ta đã chịu nhiều đau đớn ở đời, mỗi một nỗi đau mới sẽ vừa nặng trĩu mà cũng lại chẳng là gì.
It was a placid explosion of orange and red, a great chromatic symphony, acolour canvas of supernatural proportions, truly a splendid Pacific sunset, quite wasted on me.
It seems to be a law of human nature that those who live by the sea are suspiciousof swimmers, just as those who live in the mountains are suspicious of mountainclimbers.
It felt good to bring my forehead to the ground. Immediately it felt like a deeply religious contact.
If we, citizens, do not support our artists, then we sacrifice our imagination on the altar of crude reality and we end up believing in nothing and having worthless dreams.