The condemned social order has not been built up on paper and ink, and I don't fancy that a combination of paper and ink will ever put an end to it.

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

His very existence was improbable, inexplicable, and altogether bewildering. He was an insoluble problem. It was inconceivable how he had existed, how he had succeeded in getting so far, how he had managed to remain -- why he did not instantly disappear.

It occurred to me that my speech or my silence, indeed any action of mine, would be a mere futility.

All creative art is magic, is evocation of the unseen in forms persuasive, enlightening, familiar and surprising.

He has to live in the midst of the incomprehensible, which is also detestable.

We live as we dream - alone.