All men are warriors. And life for everything in our universe is nothing but war.

Before, you are wise; after, you are wise. In between you are otherwise.

Life moved ever outward into infinite possibilities and yet all things were perfect and finished in every single moment, their end attained.

For war is never some cosmic accident descending upon a people with all the chance and inevitability of asteroids falling like fire out of the heavens, but only the will and work of man.

We walk the brink of racial suicide because we were smart enough to make atomic bombs and stupid enough to use them.

The belly is the reason that man does not easily mistake himself for a god.

The true human being is the meaning of the universe. He is a dancing star. He is the exploding singularity pregnant with infinite possibilities.