We look too much to museums. The sun coming up in the morning is enough.

Our task, then always, is to challenge the apparent forms of reality-that is, the fixed manner and values of the few, and to struggle with it until it reveals its mad, vari-implicated chaos, its false face, and so on until it surrenders its insight, its truth.

I am an invisible man. No, I am not a spook like those who haunted Edgar Allan Poe; nor am I one of your Hollywood-movie ectoplasms.

I am nobody but myself.

Life is to be lived, not controlled, and humanity is won by continuing to play in face of certain defeat.

That which we remember is, more often than not, that which we would like to have been; or that which we hope to be. Thus our memory and our identity are ever at odds; our history ever a tale told by inattentive idealists.

Words are your business, boy. Not just the word. Words are everything. The key to the rock, the answer to the question.