In the name of Bacon will you chicken me up that egg. Shall I swallow cave-phantoms?

There is man in his entirety, blaming his shoe when his foot is guilty.

Watt's concern, deep as it appeared, was not after all what the figure was, in reality, but with what the figure appeared to be, in reality.

I marshalled the words and opened my mouth, thinking I would hear them. But all I heard was a kind of rattle, unintelligible even to me who knew what was intended.

The time is perhaps not altogether too green for the vile suggestion that art has nothing to do with clarity, does not dabble in the clear and does not make clear, and more than the light of day (or night) makes the subsolar, -lunar, and -stellar excrement. Art is the sun, moon, and stars of the mind, the whole mind.

Silence and darkness were all I craved. Well, I get a certain amount of both. They being one.

There is at least this to be said for mind, that it can dispel mind.