Having To Talk Destroys The Symphony Of

Genuine Recollections Almost Invariably Explain Oneself To Oneself. Suppose, For Example, That You Feel An Instinctive Aversion To Some Particular Kind Of Wine. Try As You Will, You Can Find No Reason For It. Suppose When You Explore A Previous Incarnation, You Remember You Died By A Poisoned Administered In A Wine Of That Kind, Your Aversion Is Explained By The Proverb: 'a Burnt Child Dreads The Fire.'

My Observation Of The Universe Convinces Me That There Are Beings Of Intelligence And Power Of A Far Higher Quality Than Anything We Can Conceive Of As Human; That They Are Not Necessarily Based On The Cerebral And Nervous Structures That We Know, And That The One And Only Chance For Mankind To Advance As A Whole Is For Individuals To Make Contact With Such Beings.

Initiation Means The Journey Inwards: Nothing Is Changed Or Can Be Changed; But All Is Trulier Understood With Every Step.

If You Examine The Highest Poetry In The Light Of Common Sense, You Can Only Say That It Is Rubbish; And In Actual Fact You Cannot So Examine It At All, Because There Is Something In Poetry Which Is Not In The Words Themselves, Which Is Not In The Images Suggested By The Words 'o Windy Star Blown Sideways Up The Sky!' True Poetry Is Itself A Magic Spell Which Is A Key To The Ineffable.

Unspeakable Is The Variety Of Form And Immeasurable The Diversity Of Beauty, But In All Is The Seal Of Unity.