How can we be scrupulous In a life which, from birth onwards, is so determined To wring us dry of any serenity at all?

Life itself is the real and most miraculous miracle of all. If one had never before seen a human hand and were suddenly presented for the first time with this strange and wonderful thing, what a miracle, what a magnificently shocking and inexplicable and mysterious thing it would be.

My trouble is I'm the sort of writer who only finds out what he's getting at by the time he's got to the end of it.

There may always be another reality to make fiction of the truth we think we've arrived at.

The moon is nothing But a circumambulating aphrodisiac Divinely subsidized to provoke the world Into a rising birth-rate

Between our birth and death we may touch understanding, As a moth brushes a window with its wing

Thank God our time is now when wrong comes up to meet us everywhere never to leave us till we take, the greatest stride of the soul man ever took. affairs are now soul size the enterprise is exploration unto God. Where are you making for? It takes so many thousand years to wake. But will you wake for pity's sake?