” ‘This document is the direct expression of a heart that’s been mortally wounded – do I understand it correctly?’ he persisted with unusual enthusiasm. ‘Yes, it’s repentance and the natural need for it that’s overcome you; and you’ve entered upon a great path, an unprecedented path. But you seem to hate in advance all those who’ll read what you’ve written, and you’re summoning them to battle. You weren’t ashamed to confess your crime; why are you ashamed of your repentance? Let them look at me, you say; well, but you, how will you look at them? Some parts of your statement are brought into relief by the style; it’s as if you revel in your own psychology and latch on to every trivial detail merely to astonish the reader with an insensitivity you don’t really have. What is this but the arrogant challenge of the guilty party to the judge?’ ”
Fyodor Dostoevsky, Devils
“The Inner-Net schedule [at the Esalen Institute] is loosely packed. The next morning, there would be mindful walking, mindful eating, reimagining work and life integration, then compassion practice, self-compassion and, finally, yoga. After dinner, there would be work on envisioning lives as they are and as we want them to be. Then Mr. Kallayil would lead some chanting.
“One of the portals we use to put the technology for the body at peak performance is music,’ he said. ‘Sierra will play the flute, Jennie the violin.'”
Nellie Bowles, The New York Times, “Where Silicon Valley is Going to Get in Touch With Its Soul.”
“What he went through while he was kissing your brother’s hand and begging him to let go of his papa, only God and I know, no one else. And that’s the way our children – not your children, but the children of the likes of me, honorable but despised men – learn the truth about life by the time they’re nine. Rich people may never find out about these things as long as they live, but my Ilyusha knew the truth the second he kissed that hand on the square. And at the very moment it was revealed to him, the truth maimed him in such a way that he’ll never recover…”
Fyodor Dostoevksy, The Brothers Karamazov