I think the whole glory of writing lies in the fact that it forces us out of ourselves and into the lives of others.

The lives of people are like young trees in a forest. They are being choked by climbing vines. The vines are old thoughts and beliefs planted by dead men.

In the beginning when the world was young there were a great many thoughts but no such thing as truth. Man made the truths himself and each truth was a composite of a great many vague thoughts. All about in the world were truths and they were all beautiful.

Only the few know the sweetness of the twisted apples.

Wait and wait. Most people's lives are spent waiting.

If people did not want their stories told, it would be better for them to keep away from me.

A man needs a purpose for real health.