Brilliant people never think of the lives they smash, being brilliant.

The writer is driven by his conviction that some truths aren't arrived at so easily, that life is still full of mystery, that it might be better for you, Dear Reader, if you went back to the Living section of your newspaper because this is the dying section and you don't really want to be here.

A person rises on a word and falls on a syllable.

Time seems to pass. The world happens, unrolling into moments, and you stop to glance at a spider pressed to its web. There is a quickness of light and a sense of things outlined precisely and streaks of running luster on the bay. You know more surely who you are on a strong bright day after a storm when the smallest falling leaf is stabbed with self-awareness. The wind makes a sound in the pines and the world comes into being, irreversibly, and the spider rides the wind-swayed web.

Look past the violence. There is a wonderful brimming spirit of innocence and fun.

Why is it so hard to be serious, so easy to be too serious?

Any assault on the borders of perception is going to seem rash at first.