There must be bands of enthusiasts for everything on earth-fanatics who shared a vocabulary, a batch of technical skills and equipment, and, perhaps, a vision of some single slice of the beauty and mystery of things, of their complexity, fascination, and unexpectedness.

Every book has an intrinsic impossibility, which its writer discovers as soon as his first excitement dwindles.

When I first read the words 'introvert' and 'extrovert' when I was 10, I thought I was both.

The irrational haunts the metaphysical.

The real and proper question is: why is it beautiful?

Why do you never find anything written about that idiosyncratic thought you advert to, about your fascination with something no one else understands? Because it is up to you. There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment.

Self-consciousness is the curse of the city and all that sophistication implies.