The mind itself is an art object ... The mind is a blue guitar on which we improvise the song of the world.

We have not yet encountered any god who is as merciful as a man who flicks a beetle over on its feet.

Why are we reading, if not in hope of beauty laid bare, life heightened and its deepest mystery probed?

Nature's silence is its one remark, and every flake of world is a chip off that old mute and immutable block.

Having chosen this foolishness, I was a free being. How could the world ever stop me, how could I betray myself, if I was not afraid?

Our life seems cursed to be a wiggle merely, and a wandering without end.

Writers serve as the memory of a people. They chew over our public past.