[A]nother important difference between tourist and traveler is that the former accepts his own civilization without question; not so the traveler, who compares it with the others, and rejects those elements he finds not to his liking.
— Paul Bowles, The Sheltering Sky
Whereas the tourist generally hurries back home at the end of a few weeks or months, the traveler belonging no more to one place than to the next, moves slowly over periods of years, from one part of the earth to another. Indeed, he would have found it difficult to tell, among the many places he had lived, precisely where it was he had felt most at home.
— Paul Bowles, The Sheltering Sky
You cannot bring about prosperity by discouraging thrift.
You cannot strengthen the weak by weakening the strong.
You cannot help little men by tearing down big men.
You cannot lift the wage earner by pulling down the wage payer.
You cannot help the poor by destroying the rich.
You cannot establish sound security on borrowed money.
You cannot further the brotherhood of man by inciting class hatred.
You cannot keep out of trouble by spending more than you earn.
You cannot build character and courage by destroying men’s initiative and independence.
And you cannot help men permanently by doing for them what they can and should do for themselves.
— William John Henry Boetcker
Beware of anything that you hear yourself saying often.
— Susan Sontag
There is nothing scarier in the world than knowing exactly where you want to go, but having absolutely no idea how to get there. Except maybe knowing where you want to go, knowing how to get there, and then having no idea of who you are when you arrive.
— Fall (Movie, 1997)
Feminine is that which seduces the masculine. Masculine is that which seduces the feminine.— David Morris
This is the test of your manhood: How much is there left in you after you have lost everything outside of yourself?
— Orison Swett Marden
You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living. Then you read a book (Lady Chatterley, for instance), or you take a trip, or you talk with Richard, and you discover that you are not living, that you are hibernating. The symptoms of hibernating are easily detectable: first, restlessness. The second symptom (when hibernating becomes dangerous and might degenerate into death): absence of pleasure. That is all. It appears like an innocuous illness. Monotony, boredom, death. Millions live like this (or die like this) without knowing it. They work in offices. They drive a car. They picnic with their families. They raise children. And then some shock treatment takes place, a person, a book, a song, and it awakens them and saves them from death.
— The Diary of AnaÃ¯s Nin , Volume One 1931-1934
by Oriah Mountain Dreamer
It doesnât interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heartâs longing.
It doesnât interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.
It doesnât interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by lifeâs betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain.
I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.
It doesnât interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; if you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see beauty, even when itâs not pretty, every day, and if you can source your own life from its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, âYes!â
It doesnât interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.
It doesnât interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.
I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments. — Oriah Mountain Dreamer