You spy your father at the Whole Foods, sitting on a lawn chair under a tree. When you ride by hours later, he is still there, chatting with the parking lot attendant. A regular. When did he become the old guy in the baseball cap, talking to anyone who will listen? And what did you think he did with his days?
Not lonely, after all. Brave.

When you have gone through all the layers of the self, its inmost nature, its essence, is nothing. You are nothing.
K., Public Talk 5, Madras (Chennai), 7 January 1978
He stood at the back window he had photographed a thousand times, without having really been there at all. Somehow, his fear had evaporated, and despite the knowledge that it might return at any time, he was grateful.

Long after your actions and their results, the residue of your intentions.

It was the shortest day of the year and somewhere along the way the bottom had dropped out.

In the mirror was the face of someone who didn’t know what had hit him—and until that moment hadn’t even known anything had.

My participation in events to which I’d thought myself central, I came to realize, went mostly unnoticed.

Your unexamined regard for your own training, professional standing, judgment, and notoriety leads me to question your intelligence.

He had developed a theory of literature based on cockney rhyming slang. His final work was entitled “Gertrude,” but the book contained no person or thing of that name.

In the last year of his life, his work was monochromatic. Yellow, the color of his yearning.

God, not as an entity, but a mental position affording consciousness safe navigation of reality.

Think about the meaning of any word long enough, and you will lose your mind.

Like it or not, every thought or action is essentially a prayer.

In LA the bottom finally dropped out—a numbing sequence of brilliant days, synaptic movies printed on his retinas, but underneath, blackness. He’d read somewhere that the self was an illusion. This was good news.