Identity seems to be non-existent at a personal level—at best we can end up in a minority, and those who discuss it most are just those people who are aware of its absence in themselves.

The hermit is he who needs a friend, and in the absence of a community has befriended himself.

The profound experience of childbirth does not produce profound people. If this were so, the guy with ten kids would be a prophet and priests would be out of work.

Our most cultural state is one of total certainty—which is the reason those of us who are most certain are those who are most out of touch with nature (i.e., reality).

Gape long enough into a looking glass and you’ll eventually see beauty. The same can be said of self-analysis, and as soon as one apes oneself, a second monkey is born.

It could be said that the discovery of ourselves is at the heart of what we call enlightenment, which is to say that that big, bright light at the end of the tunnel is us. The problem is that no one wants to discover that we’re no better or no worse than the rest—indeed, to discover that we’re no different than the rest—because that’s no fun.