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Self-revelation is a cruel process. The real picture, the real "you" never emerges. Looking for it is as bewildering as trying to know how you really look. Ten different mirrors show you ten different faces.

But when the self speaks to the self, who is speaking?- the entombed soul, the spirit driven in, in, in to the central catacomb; the self that took the veil and left the world- a coward perhaps, yet somehow beautiful, as it flits with its lantern restlessly up and down the dark corridors.

The man whose whole activity is diverted to inner meditation becomes insensible to all his surroundings. If he loves, it is not to give himself, to blend in fecund union with another being, but to meditate on his love. His passions are mere appearances, being sterile. They are dissipated in futile imaginings, producing nothing external to themselves.

What is interesting about self-analysis is that it leads nowhere- it is an art form in itself.

I admire people who are suited to the contemplative life. . . . They can sit inside themselves like honey in a jar and just be. It's wonderful to have someone like that around, you always feel you can count on them. You can go away and come back, you can change your mind and your hairdo and your politics, and when you get through doing all these upsetting things, you look around and there they are, just the way they were, just being.