Two hours. One hundred and twenty minutes. Anything might be done in that time. Anything. Nothing. Oh, he had had hundreds of hours, and what had he done with them? Wasted them, spilt the precious minutes as though his reservoir were inexhaustible.

Man is an intelligence in servitude to his organs.

All the advantages of Christianity and alcohol; none of their defects.

Art is one of the means whereby man seeks to redeem a life which is experienced as chaotic, senseless, and largely evil.

My father considered a walk among the mountains as the equivalent of churchgoing.

Maybe this world is another planet's Hell.

Happiness is like coke — something you get as a by-product in the process of making something else.