The course of the seasons is a piece of clockwork, with a cuckoo to call when it is spring.

What I do not like about our definitions of genius is that there is in them nothing of the day of judgment, nothing of resounding through eternity and nothing of the footsteps of the Almighty.

It is a great shame; most of our words are misused tools / which often still smell of the mud in which previous owners / desecrated them.

With God thoughts are colors, with us they are pigments-even the most abstract one may be accompanied by physical pain.

I am confident of my ability to demonstrate that one can sometimes believe in something and yet not believe in it. Nothing is less fathomable than the systems that motivate our actions.

Perhaps in time the so-called Dark Ages will be thought of as including our own.

The highest point to which a weak but experienced mind can rise is detecting the weakness of better men.