There is a certain aesthetic pleasure in trying to imagine the unimaginable and failing, if you are a reader.

You are safe with me." "I am not at all safe, with you. But I have no desire to be elsewhere.

One of the reasons I've gotten so attached to talking to scientists is that... they know there is a reality.

History, writing, infect after a time a man's sense of himself.

Ice burns, and it is hard to the warm-skinned to distinguish one sensation, fire, from the other, frost.

A beautiful woman, Simone Weil said, seeing herself in the mirror, knows "This is I." An ugly woman knows with equal certainty, "This is not I." Maud knew this neat division represented an over-simplification. The doll-mask she saw had nothing to do with her, nothing.

He was beautiful, that was always affirmed, but his beauty was hard to fix or to see, for he was always glimmering, flickering, melting, mixing, he was the shape of a shapeless flame, he was the eddying thread of needle-shapes in the shapeless mass of the waterfall. He was the invisible wind that hurried the clouds in billows and ribbons. You could see a bare tree on the skyline bent by the wind, holding up twisted branches and bent twigs, and suddenly its formless form would resolve itself into that of the trickster.