Many of us who walk to and fro upon our usual tasks are prisoners drawing mental maps of escape.

Lights come and go in the night sky. Men, troubled at last by the things they build, may toss in their sleep and dream bad dreams, or lie awake while the meteors whisper greenly overhead. But nowhere in all space or on a thousand worlds will there be men to share our loneliness.

I no longer cared about survival...I merely loved.

Man no longer dreams over a book in which a soft voice, a constant companion, observes, exhorts, or sighs with him through the pangs of youth and age. Today he is more likely to sit before a screen and dream the mass dream which comes from outside.

I am older now, and sleep less, and have seen most of what there is to see and am not very much impressed any more, I suppose, by anything.

The secret, if one may paraphrase a savage vocabulary, lies in the egg of night.

There is nothing very 'normal' about nature.