The unnatural and the strange have a perfume of their own

On the road halfway between faith and criticism stands the inn of reason. Reason is faith in what can be understood without faith, but it's still a faith, since to understand presupposes that there's something understandable.

We never love anyone. What we love is the idea we have of someone. It's our own concept—our own selves—that we love.

The idea of any social obligation ... just the idea of it embarasses my thoughts for a day, and sometimes it's since the day before that I worry, and don't sleep well, and the real affair, when it happens, is absolutely insignificant and justifies nothing; and the case repeats itself and I never learn to learn.

pg 9, "The consciousness of life's unconsciousness is the oldest tax levied on the intelligence.

To live strikes me as a metaphysical mistake of matter, a dereliction of inaction.

I wasn’t meant for reality, but life came and found me.