Strictly speaking, we do not make decisions. Decisions make us.

That is the dream of all novelists-that one of their characters will become 'somebody.'

This must be what it means to be a ghost, being certain that life exists, because your four senses say so, and yet unable to see it.

As my cat would say, all hours are good for sleeping.

Perhaps it is the language that chooses the writers it needs, making use of them so that each might express a tiny part of what it is.

Not only does the universe have its own laws, all of them indifferent to the contradictory dreams and desires of humanity, and in the formulation of which we contribute not one iota, apart, that is, from the words by which we clumsily name them, but everything seems to indicate that it uses these laws for aims and objectives that transcend and always will transcend our understanding.

For human words are like shadows, and shadows are incapable of explaining light and between shadow and light there is the opaque body from which words are born.