Digression is the soul of wit. Take the philosophic asides away from Dante, Milton or Hamlet's father's ghost and what stays is dry bones.

The sun burnt every day. It burnt Time. The world rushed in a circle and turned on its axis and time was busy burning the years and the people anyway, without any help from him. So if he burnt things with the firemen, and the sun burnt Time, that meant everything burnt!

I want to feel all there is to feel, he thought. Let me feel tired, now, let me feel tired. I mustn't forget, I'm alive, I know I'm alive, I mustn't forget it tonight or tomorrow or the day after that.

I'm inclined to believe you need the psychiatrist.

We travel for romance, we travel for architecture, and we travel to be lost.

I don't understand this whole thing about computers and the superhighway. Who wants to be in touch with all of those people?

For about 150 days a year in Venice, the sun doesn't show through the mist until noon.