When I didn't argue he was satisfied he had persuaded me, and was not the first to make that mistake.

Language is a spiritual mansion in which you live and nobody has the right to evict you.

There is an immense, painful longing for a broader, more flexible, fuller, more coherent, more comprehensive account of what we human beings are, who we are and what this life is for.

I blame myself for not often enough seeing the extraordinary in the ordinary. Somewhere in his journals, Dostoyevky remarks that a writer can begin anywhere, at the most commonplace thing, scratch around in it long enough, pry and dig away long enough, and lo!, soon he will hit upon the marvelous.

...is the carbon molecule lined with thought?

When I didn't argue he was satisfied he had persuaded me, and was not the first to make that mistake.

Excuse me ... but I reject your definitions of me.