In the liquid amber within the ivory porcelain, the initiated may touch the sweet reticence of Confucius, the piquancy of Laotse, and the ethereal aroma of Sakyamuni himself.
We are ever brutal to those who love and serve us in silence, but the time may come when, for our cruelty, we shall be deserted by these best friends of ours.
People are not taught to be really virtuous, but to behave properly.
Fain would we remain barbarians, if our claim to civilization were to be based on the gruesome glory of war.
True beauty could be discovered only by one who mentally complete the incomplete.
Our mind is the canvas on which the artists lay their colour; their pigments are our emotions; their chiaroscuro the light of joy, the shadow of sadness. The masterpiece is of ourselves, as we are of the masterpiece.
Approach a great painting as thou wouldst approach a great prince.
Our standards of morality are begotten of the past needs of society, but is society to remain always the same?
Welcome to thee,O sword of eternity!Through BuddhaAnd through Daruma alikeThou hast cleft thy way.
For life is an expression, our unconscious actions the constant betrayal of our innermost thought. Confucius said that “man hideth not.” Perhaps we reveal ourselves too much in small things because we have so little of the great to conceal.
[Tea-masters] have given emphasis to our natural love of simplicity, and shown us the beauty of humility. In fact, through their teachings tea has entered the life of the people.
How can one be so serious with the world when the world itself is so ridiculous?
One master defines Zen as the art of feeling the polar star in the southern sky. Truth can be reached only through the comprehension of opposites.
The seeker for perfection must discover in his own life the reflection of the inner light.
But when we consider how small after all the cup of human enjoyment is, how soon overflowed with tears, how easily drained to the dregs in our quenchless thirst for infinity, we shall not blame ourselves for making so much of the tea-cup.
In joy or sadness flowers are our constant friends.
The art of life lies in a constant readjustment to our surroundings.