21
" The Himalaya (hɪmalɶyɶ) does not make Rishis, the Rishis make the Himalaya (hɪmalɶyɶ) to be what it is. A Rishi is a beacon of light that expands and clarifies the stretches of vision of all those that connect with her/him here and now. It is like taking a candle into a dark room, and everything in the room is visible. As a natural and spontaneous consequence, the door leading to the open light filled outdoors becomes visible to you. You can now naturally and spontaneously step out of the room that you were trapped in due to the darkness of ignorance, and let your consciousness expand into infinity. Stay in the present moment, in the here and now, my brother. Immerse yourself into the present entirely. Then you will see these Rishis in yourSelf, here and now, and always. The infinitely spaced vast reaches of the picturesque multiple dimensions of the present moment, pregnant with all futures, right here right now, becomes your vision.”Krishna, ‘A Iyer in Jose’s Well "
33
" Actually, this is a poem my father once showed me, a long time ago. It has been bastardized many times, in many ways, but this is the original:The Cold Within Six men trapped by happenstance,in bleak and bitter coldEach possessed a stick of wood,or so the story's told. Their dying fire in need of logs,the first man held his back For of the faces round the fire,he noticed one was black. One man looking cross the way, saw one not of his churchAnd could not bring himself to givethe fire his stick of birch. The third one sat in tattered clothes,he gave his coat a hitchWhy should his log be put to useto warm the idle rich?The rich man just sat back and thoughtof the wealth he had in store And how to keep what he had earnedfrom the lazy, shiftless poor.The black man's face bespoke revengeas the fire passed from his sight,For all he saw in his stick of woodwas a chance to spite the white.And the last man of this forlorn groupdid naught except for gain,Giving only to those who gave,was how he played the gameThe logs held tight, in death's stillhands,was proof of human sinThey didn't die from the cold without,they died from the cold within. "
38
" As the chapters took shape, a change came over her. It was the double-sided recognition that this book, the last that she would write, might achieve esteem and success equal to her great novel, but that its emotional heart would lie in her own unhappiness for having failed to find the one thing she wanted. For the first time she was a character in her own writing, and her frailties and mistakes were trapped on the page by the beauty and unsparing focus of her prose. Towards the end it was a battle to finish a page. The story was the story she had told herself for decades, deep within her own mind, and now as it grew, line by line, on the paper before her, she wrestled with each turn in the path all over again, as if it were still possible to change its course with the power of her words. "
― Frederick Weisel , Teller