Whether or not they exist we are slaves to our gods.

Direct experience is the evasion, or hiding place of those devoid of imagination.

That is my morality or my metaphysics or me myself: a passer-by in everything, even my own soul. I belong to nothing, I desire nothing, I am nothing except an abstract centre of impersonal sensations, a sentient mirror fallen from the wall but still turned to reflect the diversity of the world.

Every spoken word double-crosses us. The written word is the only tolerable form of communication, as it isn't a stone in a bridge between souls but a ray of light between stars.

There are ships sailing to many ports, but not a single one goes where life is not painful.

Time, which grays hair and wrinkles faces, also withers violent affections, and much more quickly.

The startling reality of things is my discovery every single day.