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

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

... too much brooding, not enough doing.

They waited. The door did not open. The rain did not stop. The darkness made a tent and covered them completely.

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

I doubt we will ever be forgiven. All I hope is – they'll remember we were human beings

Complaints about reality are immature.