Sleep is perhaps the only among life's great pleasures which need not be of short duration.

I have decided, it is fruitless. For I am no longer sure of anything concerning my existance. A philosopher is a dead poet and a dying theologian.

I tried a very fancy attack I'd learned in France, which involved a beat, a feint in quarte, a feint in sixte, and a lunge veering off into an attack on his wrist. I nicked him, and the blood flowed.

Time passed slowly, like and old man climbing a hill.

I saw my earlier selves as different people, acquaintances I had outgrown. I wondered how I could ever have been some of them.

Then you must reconcile yourself to the fact that something is always hurt by any change. If you do this, you will not be hurt yourself.

I know, too, that death is the only god who comes when you call.