One Could Almost Define Life As The

It's Normal At This Point For The Fear-anger Syndrome To Take Over And Make You Want To Hammer On That Side Plate With A Chisel, To Pound It Off With A Sledge If Necessary. You Think About It, And The More You Think About It The More You're Inclined To Take The Whole Machine To A High Bridge And Drop It Off. It's Just Outrageous That A Tiny Little Slot Of A Screw Can Defeat You So Totally.

The Buddha, The Godhead, Resides Quite As Comfortably In The Circuits Of A Digital Computer Or The Gears Of A Cycle Transmission As He Does At The Top Of A Mountain Or In The Petals Of A Flower. To Think Otherwise Is To Demean The Buddha - Which Is To Demean Oneself.

And What Is Good, Phaedrus, And What Is Not Good— Need We Ask Anyone To Tell Us These Things?

What I Am Is A Heretic Who's Recanted, And Thereby In Everyone's Eyes Saved His Soul. Everyone's Eyes But One, Who Knows Deep Down Inside That All He Has Saved Is His Skin.

The Intelligence Of The Mind Can't Think Of Any Reason To Live, But It Goes On Anyway Because The Intelligence Of The Cells Can't Think Of Any Reason To Die.