To the scientist there is the joy in pursuing truth which nearly counteracts the depressing revelations of truth.

I could not help feeling that they were evil things -- mountains of madness whose farther slopes looked out over some accursed ultimate abyss.

Our brains deliberately make us forget things, to prevent insanity

Toil without song is like a weary journey without an end.

Someday our piecing together of knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas we shall either go mad or flee into the safety of a new dark age.

Life is a hideous thing.

All life is only a set of pictures in the brain, among which there is no difference betwixt those born of real things and those born of inward dreamings, and no cause to value the one above the other.