My heart was beating like an army on the march.

... he felt himself to be one of them, who can live neither in the world nor out of it. They are a kind of sick people, whose desire for God makes them unsatisfactory citizens of an ordinary life, but whose strength or temperament fails them to surrender the world completely; and present-day society, with its hurried pace and its mechanical and technical structure, offers no home to these unhappy souls.

It is difficult in life to be good, and difficult in art to portray goodness. Perhaps we don't know much about goodness.

Our destiny can be examined, but it cannot be justified or totally explained. We are simply here.

Probably no adult misery can be compared with a child's despair.

Perhaps when distant people on other planets pick up some wavelength of ours all they hear is a continuous scream.

There is no beyond, there is only here, the infinitely small, infinitely great and utterly demanding present.