The whole planet reeks of mysticism without revelation.

Nothing helps an artist's career more than a little death and obscurity.

Its hard to die. Harder to live

If everyone could understand the working of a psychopath's mind, we undoubtedly would be closer to insanity ourselves.

Human beings have only that confusing mass of chemically driven neurological storage to rely on. They're all subjective and emotion-tinged. How can they trust any of their memories?

Religion seems to have always offered us that false duality ... the silences of infinite space or the cozy comfort of inner certainty.

It occurs to me that our survival may depend upon our talking to one another.