I feel as though I stand at the foot of an infinitely high staircase, down which some exuberant spirit is flinging tennis ball after tennis ball, eternally, and the one thing I want in the world is a tennis ball.

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.

The irrational haunts the metaphysical.

I come down to the water to cool my eyes. But everywhere I look I see fire; that which isn't flint is tinder, and the whole world sparks and flames.

It is difficult to undo our own damage, and to recall to our presence that which we have asked to leave.

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