There is nothing so loathsome as a sentimental surrealist.

Let the peace of this day be here tomorrow when I wake up.

A woman is only half of something there are usually two sides to.

She thougt of sunrise over the library slope at Cornell University that nobody out on it had seen because the slope faces west.

But as with Maxwell's Demon, so now. Either she could not communicate, or he did not exist.

Life's single lesson: that there is more accident to it than a man can ever admit to in a lifetime and stay sane.

What are the stars but points in the body of God where we insert the healing needles of our terror and longing?