When a man talks from his heart, in his moment of truth, he speaks poetry.

How many times can a man go down and still be alive?

There is more than one way to burn a book.

Gardening is the handiest excuse for being a philosopher. Nobody guesses, nobody accuses, nobody knows, but there you are, Plato in the peonies, Socrates force-growing his own hemlock. A man toting a sack of blood manure across his lawn is kin to Atlas letting the world spin easy on his shoulder.

Plot is no more than footprints left in the snow after your characters have run by on their way to incredible destinations.

The television is 'real'. It is immediate, it has dimension. It tells you what to think and blasts it in. It must be right. It seems so right. It rushes you on so quickly to its own conclusions your mind hasn't time to protest, 'What nonsense!'.

Our civilization is flinging itself to pieces. Stand back from the centrifuge.