My existence is such that "I" do not really exist. At the end of understanding so much I understand that I know nothing. I suffer for being surrounded by intense suffering and yet I'm deeply suspicious if first of all there is indeed any consciousness except me. I strive to find the artist who might have fathered this great universal art but feel myself to be too feeble to accomplish this seemingly unattainable mission. Yet I have every respect for life, and it is this sheer respect that makes me live.

How miserable a solipsist is! It is rather senseless for him to even assert his belief in solipsism, for, on the one hand, if his belief is false it is like committing intellectual suicide, and, on the other hand, if his belief is true it is an act of intellectual insanity.

Gravity is neither a force nor a consequence of any space-time curvature. It is simply an orderly spatial illusion to non-spatial observer/s.

The universe is a gigantic non-spatial computer.

Noble spirits are heterodox.

The world is solely occupied by a questioner and a philosopher.

Optimism is the staunchest worshipper of life.