Practically all SF is trash.

If a man who can’t count finds a four leaf clover, is he lucky?

Skepticism is like a microscope whose magnification is constantly increased: the sharp image that one begins with finally dissolves, because it is not possible to see ultimate things: their existence is only to be inferred.

A man who for an entire week does nothing but hit himself over the head has little reason to be proud.

Psychoanalytic doctrine reveals the pig in man, a pig saddled with a conscience; the disastrous result is that the pig is uncomfortable beneath that pious rider, and the rider fares no better in the situation, since his endeavor is not only to tame the pig, but also to render it invisible.

The fate of a single man can be rich with significance, that of a few hundred less so, but the history of thousands and millions of men does not mean anything at all, in any adequate sense of the word.

Plentitude, when too plentitudinous, was worst than destitution, for obviously what could one do, if there was nothing one could not?