Nobody can have the consolations of religion or philosophy unless he has first experienced their desolations.

The ductless glands secrete among other things our moods, our aspirations, our philosophy of life.

Results only come to those who master the paradoxical art of doing and not doing, of letting go as a person in order that the immanent and transcendent unknown quantity may take hold. We cannot make ourselves understand; the most we can do is to foster a state of mind in which understanding may come to us.

But the quiet grows and grows. Beautifully and unbearably.

Those who meant well behaved in the same way as those who meant badly.

Which is better: to have fun with fungi or to have Idiocy with ideology, to have wars because of words, to have tomorrow's misdeeds out of yesterday's miscreeds?

Pain was a fascinating horror