Sacred texts always offend reason.

My father liked to moralize, and so do I. But he was in earnest, while I am embarrassed and pretend that I am merely being witty.

In the labyrinth of a difficult text, we find unmarked forks in the path, detours, blind alleys, loops that deliver us back to our point of entry, and finally the monster who whispers an unintelligible truth in our ears.

People believe that photographs are true and therefore cannot be art.

While we are reading, we are all Don Quixote.

I win on my merits; my opponents win by cheating.

Like love, grief fades in and out.