But the actual touch of her lingered, inside his heart. That remained. In all the years of his life ahead, the long years without her, with never seeing her or hearing from her or knowing anything about her, if she was alive or happy or dead or what, that touch stayed locked within him, sealed in himself, and never went away. That one touch of her hand.

My schedule for today lists a six-hour self-accusatory depression.

In my writing I even question the universe; I wonder out loud if it is real, and I wonder out loud if all of us are real.

Any system which says, This is a rotten world, wait for the next, give up, do nothing, succumb--that may be the basic Lie and if we participate in believing it and acting (or rather not acting) on it we involve ourselves in the Lie and suffer dreadfully... which only reinforces that particular Lie.

Skill is a function of chance. It’s an intuitive best-use of chance situations.

The cries of the dead are terrible indeed; you should try not to hear them.

How'd you like to gaze at a beer can throughout eternity? It might not be so bad. There'd be nothing to fear.