I think the dying pray at the last not "please," but "thank you," as a guest thanks his host at the door.

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

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

Books swept me away, this way and that, one after the other; I made endless vows according to their lights for I believed them.

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.

No one escapes the wilderness on the way to the promised land.

The mind wants to live forever, or to learn a very good reason why not. The mind wants the world to return its love, or its awareness... The mind's sidekick, however, will settle for two eggs over easy. The dear, stupid body is easily satisfied as a spaniel. And, incredibly, the simple spaniel can lure the brawling mind to its dish. It is everlastingly funny that the proud, metaphysically ambitious mind will hush if you give it an egg.