Do not think you will necessarily be aware of your own enlightenment.
We ourselves cannot: put any magic spells on this world. The world is its own magic.
If you write for God you will reach many men and bring them joy.
If you write for men you may make some money and you may give someone a little joy and you may make a noise in the world, for a little while.
If you write for yourself you can read what you yourself have written and after ten minutes you will be so disgusted you will wish that you were dead.
I think the most optimistic thing is that we are still here! We have attained the capacity to destroy the planet and haven’t done it. The longer we don’t do it, the better chance we have.
Desolation will not leave the desert
Until it leaves the heart. . .
The application of this knife, the division of the world into parts and the building of this structure, is something everybody does. All the time we are aware of millions of things around us — these changing shapes, these burning hills, the sound of the engine, the feel of the throttle, each rock and weed and fence post and piece of debris beside the road — aware of these things but not really conscious of them unless there is something unusual or unless they reflect something we are predisposed to see. We couldn’t possibly be conscious of these things and remember all of them because our mind would be so full of useless details we would be unable to think. From all this awareness we must select, and what we select and call consciousness is never the same as the awareness because the process of selection mutates it. We take a handful of sand from the endless landscape of awareness around us and call that handful of sand the world.