Anger can be borne - it can even be satisfying - if it can gather into words and explode in a storm, or a rapier-sharp attack. But without these means of ventilation, it only turns back inward, building and swirling like a head of stream - building to an impotent, murderous rage.

The more words I have, the more distinct, precise my perceptions become--and such lucidity is a form of joy.

The authentic is almost never found by being pursued; but there is no missing it when you are in its presence.

The wonder is what you can make a paradise out of.

While we allow the inhabitants of imaginary remote corners the authenticity of savages or sufferers, we rarely suppose them to possess the authenticity of complex, sophisticated perceptions.

The vision of an entire world becoming just like us is at least as discomfiting as the thought that most of it won't.

Why look any further if you've discovered complete satisfaction.