The world may think it idiotic, Nor care at all we're symbiotic, But I will say at once and twice: I find it nice. I find it nice.

Not everything in life can be interpreted metaphorically; that's because things fall out on the way.

Ideally, if anything [was] any good, it would be indescribable.

It's well we cannot hear the screams we make in other people's dreams.

Explaining something makes it go away, so to speak; what's important is left after you have explained everything else.

Neither mine nor other people's prospects seem particularly pleasing just at the moment, and I have fantasies of going to Iceland, never to return. As it is, I tell myself not to remember the past, not to hope or fear for the future, and not to think in the present, a comprehensive program that will undoubtedly have very little success.

What is, is, and what might have been could never have existed.