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

Lovemaking seems all too absurd when described.

Mobs have passions, not brains.

The life of a poet lies not merely in the finite language-dance of expression but in the nearly infinite combinations of perception and memory combined with the sensitivity to what is perceived and remembered.

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?

No lifetime is long enough for those ... who simply wish to understand themselves and their lives. It is, perhaps, the curse of being human, but also a blessing.

Laws had a bad habit of being ignored or abrogated when societal push came to totalitarian shove.