A Quote by Laozi

The skillful traveller leaves no traces of his wheels. — © Laozi
The skillful traveller leaves no traces of his wheels.

Quote Author

The artist, a traveller on this earth, leaves behind imperishable traces of his being.
Every animal leaves traces of what it was; man alone leaves traces of what he created.
Man is not the most majestic of the creatures; long before the mammals even, the dinosaurs were far more splendid. But he has what no other animal possesses: a jigsaw of faculties, which alone, over three thousand million years of life, made him creative. Every animal leaves traces of what he was. Man alone leaves traces of what he created.
A poet should leave traces of his passage, not proofs. Traces alone engender dreams.
A skillful commander is not overbearing. A skillful fighter does not become angry. A skillful conqueror does not compete with people. One who is skillful in using men puts himself below them. This is called the strength to use men. This is called matching Heaven, The highest principle of old.
Everything you do leaves traces, doesn't it. The life you've lived is written all over you, for those who can read.
Blood had long since ceased to beat from one end to the other, but one could sense, from passages marked with fresher traces of wheels and hooves, that once the meaning and even the very idea of a long journey was lost, sleep had not descended over it in one fell swoop: it had continued to steal a march here and there, in a discontinuous way, and over short distances, like a laborer who feels his cart jolt on a section of Roman road that crosses his field.
Memory is the most transient of all possessions. And when it goes, it leaves as few traces as stars that have disappeared.
The grossly impudent lie always leaves traces behind it, even after it has been nailed down.
Love, like light, is a thing that is enacted better than defined: we know it afterward by the traces it leaves on paper.
Who leaves the pine-tree, leaves his friend, Unnerves his strength, invites his end.
How can the mind be so imperfect?" she says with a smile. I look at my hands. Bathed in the moonlight, they seem like statues, proportioned to no purpose. "It may well be imperfect," I say, "but it leaves traces. And we can follow those traces, like footsteps in the snow." "Where do the lead?" "To oneself," I answer. "That's where the mind is. Without the mind, nothing leads anywhere." I look up. The winter moon is brilliant, over the Town, above the Wall. "Not one thing is your fault," I comfort her.
When the hounds of Spring are on winter's traces, The mother of months in meadow or plain Fills the shadows and windy places With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain.
Everything that we encounter leaves traces behind. Everything contributes imperceptibly to our education
XXIX Traveler, there is no path. The path is made by walking. Traveller, the path is your tracks And nothing more. Traveller, there is no path The path is made by walking. By walking you make a path And turning, you look back At a way you will never tread again Traveller, there is no road Only wakes in the sea.
If a traveller does not meet with one who is his better, or his equal, let him firmly keep to his solitary journey; there is no companionship with a fool.
This site uses cookies to ensure you get the best experience. More info...
Got it!