A historian may be an artist too, and a novelist is a historian, the preserver, the keeper, the expounder, of human experience.

You can't breathe dead hippo waking, sleeping, and eating, and at the same time keep your precarious grip on existence.

The revolutionary spirit is mighty convenient in this, that it frees one from all scruples as regards ideas.

There is something haunting in the light of the moon.

I let him run on, this papier-maché Mephistopheles, and it seemed to me that if I tried I could poke my forefinger through him, and would find nothing inside but a little loose dirt, maybe.

We couldn't understand because we were too far... and could not remember because we were traveling in the night of first ages, those ages that had gone, leaving hardly a sign... and no memories.

I remember my youth... the feeling that I could last forever, outlast the sea, the earth, and all men.