The Soul Is The Weariest

He Awoke, Opened His Eye. The Room Meant Very Little To Him; He Was Too Deeply Immersed In The Non-being From Which He Had Just Come. If He Had Not The Energy To Ascertain His Position In Time And Space, He Also Lacked The Desire. ... In Utter Comfort, Utter Relaxation He Lay Absolutely Still For A While, And Then Sank Back Into On The The Light Momentary Sleeps That Occur After A Long, Profound One.

The Soul Is The Weariest Part Of The Body.

It's Very Hard To Write About That Which Is Always Beautiful And Pleasant And Good. You Don't Get Anywhere With It. There's No Friction In It. There's No Trouble. You Have To Have Trouble. Somebody's Got To Get In Trouble, Or No One Wants To Read It.

The Hindus Are Busy Letting Themselves Be Seen Riding In Cadillacs Instead Of Smearing Themselves With Sandalwood Paste And Bowing In Front Of Ganpati. The Moslems Would Rather Miss Evening Prayer Than The New Disney Movie. The Buddhists Think It's More Important To Take Over In The Name Of Stalin And Progress Than To Meditate On The Four Basic Sorrows. And We Don't Even Have To Mention Christianity Or Judaism.

Illness Reduces Man To His Basic State: A Cloaca In Which The Chemical Processes Continue. The Meaningless Hegemony Of The Involuntary.