Life itself is an exile. The way home is not the way back.

If you asked me what is the basis of all my work, it's the feeling there's something basically wrong with human beings.

Too much success gets you resting on your laurels and creates a kind of quicksand that you can't get out of.

If you can train your senses to perceive the movement of the minute hand of a clock, what is to stop you for training them to 'slow down' when you look at a tree or a puddle?

The sheer volume of evidence for survival after death is so immense that to ignore it is like standing at the foot of Mount Everest and insisting that you cannot see the mountain.

Turning on the light is easy if you know where the switch is.

It seemed perfectly possible that, in spite of my certainty of my own genius, I might die of some illness, or perhaps even in a street accident, before I had ever glimpsed the meaning of life. My moods of happiness and self-confidence convinced me that I had a "destiny" to become a famous writer, and to be remembered as one of the most important thinkers of the century.