We do not die because we have to die; we die because one day, and not so long ago, our consciousness was forced to deem it necessary.

This is why true beauty never strikes us directly. The setting sun is beautiful because of all it makes us lose.

We do not die because we have to die; we die because one day, and not so long ago, our consciousness was forced to deem it necessary.

If our life lacks a constant magic it is because we choose to observe our acts and lose ourselves in consideration of their imagined form and meaning, instead of being impelled by their force.

The race of prophets is extinct. Europe is becoming set in its ways, slowly embalming itself beneath the wrappings of its borders, its factories, its law-courts and its universities. The frozen Mind cracks between the mineral staves which close upon it.

There is in every madman a misunderstood genius whose idea, shining in his head, frightened people, and for whom delirium was the only solution to the strangulation that life had prepared for him.

But how is one to make a scientist understand that there is something unalterably deranged about differential calculus, quantum theory, or the obscene and so inanely liturgical ordeals of the precession of the equinoxes.