Sarcasm... the protest of those who are weak.

I felt that I was not, never had been and never would be a living part of this overpoweringly solid and deeply meaningful world around me.

We are all born equally far from the sun.

It was demeaning to scrape affection from virtually everyone you encountered. That was immature.

The summer of 1943 at Exeter was as happy a time as I ever had in my life.

But something held me back. Perhaps I was stopped by that level of feeling, deeper than thought, which contains the truth.

There was no harm in taking aim, even if the target was a dream.