My understanding of the meaning of a book is that the book itself disappears from sight, that it is chewed alive, digested and incorporated into the system as flesh and blood which in turn creates new spirit and reshapes the world.

I wanted to feel the blood running back into my veins, even at the cost of annihilation. I wanted to shake the stone and light out of my system. I wanted the dark fecundity of nature, the deep well of the womb, silence, or else the lapping of the black waters of death. I wanted to be that night which the remorseless eye illuminated, a night diapered with stars and trailing comets. To be of night so frighteningly silent, so utterly incomprehensible and eloquent at the same time. Never more to speak or to listen or to think.

The world itself is pregnant with failure, is the perfect manifestation of imperfection, of the consciousness of failure.

What does it matter how one comes by the truth so long as one pounces upon it and lives by it?

Surely every one realizes, at some point along the way, that he is capable of living a far better life than the one he has chosen.

Imagination is the voice of daring. If there is anything Godlike about God it is that. He dared to imagine everything.

Everyone has his own reality in which, if one is not too cautious, timid or frightened, one swims. This is the only reality there is.