Can we consider the universe real, and if so, in what way?

Death hides within every religion. And at any time it can flash forth-not with healing in its wings but with poison, with that which wounds.

It did not seem possible that Wendy Wright had been born out of blood and internal organs like other people. In proximity to her he felt himself to be a squat, oily, sweating, uneducated nurt whose stomach rattled and whose breath wheezed. Near her he became aware of the physical mechanisms which kept him alive; within him machinery, pipes and valves and gas-compressors and fan belts had to chug away at a losing task, a labor ultimately doomed. Seeing her face, he discovered that his own consisted of a garish mask; noticing her body made him feel like a low-class wind-up toy.

Sometimes one must try anything, it is no disgrace. On the contrary, it is a sign of wisdom.

He felt all at once like an ineffectual moth, fluttering at the windowpane of reality, dimly seeing it from outside.

I guess that's the story of life: what you most fear never happens, but what you most yearn for never happens either. This is the difference between life and fiction. I suppose it's a good trade-off. But I'm not sure.

In a nutshell-I fear authority but at the same time I resent it-the authority and my own fear. So I rebel.