The interior life is often stupid.

The mind itself is an art object. It is a Mondrian canvas onto whose homemade grids it fits its own preselected products. Our knowledge is contextual and only contextual. Ordering and invention coincide: we call their collaboration knowledge.

People who read are not too lazy to turn on the television; they prefer books.

Hone and spread your spirit till you yourself are a sail, whetted, translucent, broadside to the merest puff.

The interior life is often stupid.

I am a frayed and nibbled survivor in a fallen world, and I am getting along. I am aging and eaten and have done my share of eating too. I am not washed and beautiful, in control of a shining world in which everything fits, but instead am wondering awed about on a splintered wreck I've come to care for, whose gnawed trees breathe a delicate air, whose bloodied and scarred creatures are my dearest companions, and whose beauty bats and shines not in its imperfections but overwhelmingly in spite of them.

Evolution loves death more than it loves you or me. This is easy to write, easy to read, and hard to believe.