In utter loneliness a writer tries to explain the inexplicable.
We don't take a trip. A trip takes us.
It would be absurd if we did not understand both angels and devils, since we invented them.
The ways of sin are curious . . . I guess if a man had to shuck off everything he had, inside and out, he'd manage to hide a few little sins somewhere for his own discomfort. They're the last things we'll give up.
All war is a symptom of man's failure as a thinking animal.
A kind of light spread out from her. And everything changed color. And the world opened out. And a day was good to awaken to. And there were no limits to anything. And the people of the world were good and handsome. And I was not afraid any more.