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

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

Perhaps, if we don't always have a conscious conscience, we have a subliminal one, from which the memory of past wrongs is not so easily erased.

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.

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

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