Most of us lead lives of chaotic improvisation from day to day, bawling for peace while plunging grimly into fresh disorders.

Running the big rapids is like sex: half the fun lies in the anticipation. Two thirds of the thrill with the approach. The remainder is only ecstasy-or darkness.

God is a sound people make when they're too tired to think anymore.

What ideal, immutable Platonic cloud could equal the beauty and perfection of any ordinary everyday cloud floating over, say, Tuba City, Arizona, on a hot day in June?

Jane Austen: Getting into her books is like getting in bed with a cadaver. Something vital is lacking; namely, life.

Society is like a stew. If you don't stir it up every once in a while then a layer of scum floats to the top.

A mother's sorrow is more true, honorable, and beautiful than the detachment of the sage.