Like water, we are truest to our nature in repose.

The civilization of one epoch becomes the manure of the next.

Our memories are card indexes consulted and then returned in disorder by authorities whom we do not control.

Approaching forty, I had a singular dream in which I almost grasped the meaning and understood the nature of what it is that wastes in wasted time.

Green leaves on a dead tree is our epitaph-green leaves, dear reader, on a dead tree.

Youth is a period of missed opportunities.

The shock, for an intelligent writer, of discovering for the first time that there are people younger than himself who think him stupid is severe.