In literary history, generation follows generation in a rage.

Every live thing is a survivor on a kind of extended emergency bivouac.

Experiencing the present purely is being empty and hollow; you catch grace as a man fills his cup under a waterfall.

If we were to judge nature by common sense or likelihood, we wouldn't believe the world existed.

The gaps are the thing. The gaps are the spirit's one home, the altitudes and latitudes so dazzlingly spare and clean that the spirit can discover itself like a once-blind man unbound. The gaps are the clefts in the rock where you cower to see the back parts of God; they are fissures between mountains and cells the wind lances through, the icy narrowing fiords splitting the cliffs of mystery. Go up into the gaps. If you can find them; they shift and vanish too. Stalk the gaps. Squeak into a gap in the soil, turn, and unlock-more than a maple-universe.

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.

What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality?