Literature was intended to be dangerous. Art was meant to be dangerous. Ideas were nothing if they were not dangerous.

Think of any great man or woman. How can you separate them from the years in which they lived? You can't. Their greatness lies in their response to that moment.

... too much brooding, not enough doing.

Nothing so completely verifies our perception of a thing as our killing of it.

The spaces between the perceiver and the thing perceived can [...] be closed with a shout of recognition.

In the dark that followed - Lucy said; "where I was born, the trees were always in the sun. And I left that place because it was intolerant of rain. Now, we are here in a place where there are no trees and there is only rain. And I intend to leave this place - because it is intolerant of light. Somewhere - there must be somewhere where darkness and light are reconciled. So I am starting a rumour, here and now, of yet another world. I don't know when it will present itself - I don't know where it will be. But - as with all those other worlds now past when it is ready, I intend to go there.

Time is light, time is dark. You either dance, or you fall.