We are seldom as limited as we think we are.

I do not know why the dead do not come back to life. Perhaps death is so wonderful, in ways we cannot comprehend, that they prefer it over and above their friends and loved ones, although I am inclined to doubt that be the case.

It's personal freedom, not hundred dollar bills that lights the soul's cigar.

We're our own dragons as well as our own heroes, and we have to rescue ourselves from ourselves.

The sky was the color of Edgar Allan Poe's pajamas.

To live fully, one must be free, but to be free one must give up security. Therefore, to live one must be ready to die. How's that for a paradox?

It was autumn, the springtime of death.