The rapists of the intellectual world become politicians; the seducers become artists.

Having a spine is overrated. If everybody squealed and ran away, there'd be no more wars.

I don't believe anything, but I have many suspicions.

The only way to stave off boredom, in a complex domesticated primate like humankind, is to increase one's intelligence. This is not appealing to the average primate, who instead invents emotional games (soap opera and grand opera dramatics).

The variables vary too much and the constants aren't as constant as they seem.

"Is," "is," "is" — the idiocy of the word haunts me. If it were abolished, human thought might begin to make sense. I don't know what anything "is"; I only know how it seems to me at this moment.

The border between the Real and the Unreal is not fixed, but just marks the last place where rival gangs of shamans fought each other to a standstill.