I want a blaze of light to flame in me forever in a timeless, dear love of everything. And why should I pretend to want anything else?

And still the Void is still and'll never move - But I will be the Void, moving without having moved.

I'm writing this book because we're all going to die.

Life was dense, dark, ancient. They watched Dean, serious and insane at his raving wheel, with eyes of hawks. All had their hands outstretched. They had come down from the back mountains and higher places to hold forth their hands for something they thought civilization could offer, and they never dreamed the sadness and the poor broken delusion of it.

Lying mouth to mouth, kiss to kiss in the pillow dark, loin to loin in unbelievable surrendering sweetness so distant from all our mental fearful abstractions it makes you wonder why men have termed God antisexual somehow (p. 148)

After all, a homeless man has reason to cry, everything in the world is pointed against him.

Some of my most neurotically fierce bitterness is the result of realizing how untrue people have become.