An idea is like a rare bird which cannot be seen. What one sees is the trembling of the branch it has just left.

These are the moments which are not calculable, and cannot be assessed in words; they live on in the solution of memory, like wonderful creatures, unique of their own kind, dredged up from the floors of some unexplored ocean.

Truth is a matter of direct apprehension-you can't climb a ladder of mental concepts to it.

The steward, according to custom, had stopped all the clocks. This, in the language of Narouz, said "Your stay with us is so brief, let us not be reminded of the flight of the hours."

We should tackle reality in a slightly jokey way, otherwise we miss its point.

I have been thinking about the girl I met last night in the mirror: dark on the marble-ivory white: glossy black hair: deep suspiring eyes in which one's glances sink because they are nervous, curious, turned to sexual curiosity.

I don’t believe one reads to escape reality. A person reads to confirm a reality he knows is there, but which he has not experienced.