They were painfully clean. But inwardly they stank. Never once had they opened the door which leads to the soul; never once did they dream of taking a blind leap into the dark.

For a metaphysical treat stop at the Big Sur Inn, which is also a haven for stray cats and dogs. Life along the South Coast is just a bed of roses, with a few thorns and nettles interspersed.

Who hates the Jews more than the Jew?

For there is only one great adventure and that is inward toward the self, and for that, time nor space nor even deeds matter.

All my good reading, you might say, was done in the toilet.

It is with the soul that we grasp the essence of another human being, not with the mind, nor even with the heart.

For the moment I can think of nothing— except that I am a sentient being stabbed by the miracle of these waters that reflect a forgotten world.