At the top of your lungs, shout and listen to the echoes. You must live life at the top of your voice!

Why then you're as mad as me. No, madder. For I distrust 'reality' and its moron mother, the universe, while you fasten your innocence to fallible devices which pretend at happy endings.

Why go to a machine when you could go to a human being?

You don't organize metaphors . . . you explode them.

Treasure this day and Treasure yourself, truly, neither will ever happen again.

Thank God for that. You can shut them, say, 'Hold on a moment.' You play God to it. But who has ever torn himself from the claw that encloses you when you drop a seed in a TV parlour? It grows you any shape it wishes! It is an environment as real as the world. It becomes and is the truth. Books can be beaten down with reason. But with all my knowledge and scepticism, I have never been able to argue with a one-hundred-piece symphony orchestra, full colour, three dimensions, and I being in and part of those incredible parlours.

Thus through half-belief, we are often doomed to repeat that very past we should have learned from.