I've always been suspicious of collective truths.

I have no other pictures of the world apart from those which express evanescence, and callousness, vanity and anger, emptiness, orhideous useless hate. Everything has merely confirmed what I had seen and understood in my childhood: futile and sordid fits of rage, cries suddenly blanketed by the silence, shadows swallowed up for ever by the night.

Oh words, what crimes are committed in your name? ~Jack or The Submission

Explanation separates us from astonishment, which is the only gateway to the incomprehensible.

All cats die. Socrates is dead. Therefore Socrates is a cat.

We are all looking for something of extraordinary importance whose nature we have forgotten; I am writing the memoirs of a man who has lost his memory.

Describe a circle, stroke its back and it turns vicious.