I feel no need for any other faith than my faith in human beings.
There should be a deep attachment, heart should be tied to heart between parent and child, for unless the child learns how to love a parent profoundly, I believe that he will never learn how to love anyone else profoundly, and not knowing how to love means the loss of the meaning of life and its fulfillment.
One faces the future with one's past.
I do not blame you, child, for growing up, she announced. But I teach you this: Whatever happens is always the woman's fault.
To take each day as a separate page, to be read carefully, savoring all of the details, this is best for me, I think.
To repay evil with kindness is the proof of a good man; a superior man blames himself, a common man blames others.
I love people. I love my family, my children . . . but inside myself is a place where I live all alone and that's where you renew your springs that never dry up.
Times were chosen and appointed. If one forced them, they were wrong.
To know how to do something well is to enjoy it.
Wandering is never waste, dear boy,' he said. 'While you wander you will find much to wonder about, and wonder is the first step to creation.
Some mothers are kissing mothers and some are scolding mothers, but it is love just the same, and most mothers kiss and scold together.
The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: A human creature born abnormally, inhumanely sensitive. To them ... a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death.
To belong to one was to deny himself the privilege of belonging to all.
What is the conscience? It is the most highly developed part of the human being, the core of the spirit, the most sensitive, the most tender.
Order is the shape upon which beauty depends.
For generations fathers had watched earth and sea.
Growth itself contains the germ of happiness.
Rennie was off again to go with his friends to a motion picture.
So Wang Lung sat, and so his age came on him day by day and year by year, and he slept fitfully in the sun as his father had done, and he said to himself that his life was done and he was satisfied with it.
It was strange how these poems came to him nowadays, the distillation of his private emotions, of his disillusionment, of his solitude, of his yearning for a future in which, nevertheless, he could not believe.
Attachment, Buddha had said, is the cause of grief.