Chaos is the score upon which reality is written.

I think someday you're going to be a great writer," he said. "But" he added maliciously, "first you'll have to suffer a bit. I mean really suffer, because you don't know what the word means yet. You only think you've suffered. You've got to fall in love first.

The man who is forever disturbed about the condition of humanity either has no problems of his own or has refused to face them.

Giving and receiving are at bottom one thing, dependent on whether one lives open or closed. Living openly one becomes a medium, a transmitter; living thus, as a river, one experiences life to the full, flows along with the current of life, and dies in order to live again as an ocean.

Those who are truly decrepit, living corpses, so to speak, are the middle-aged, middle-class men and woman who are stuck in their comfortable grooves and imagine that the status quo will least forever or else are so frightened it won't, that they have retreated into their mental bomb shelters to wait it out.

Once you have given up the ghost, everything follows with dead certainty, even in the midst of chaos.

The monstrous thing is not that men have created roses out of this dung heap, but that, for some reason or other, they should want roses.