We shed as we pick up, like travellers who must carry everything in their arms, and what we let fall will be picked up by those behind. The procession is very long and life is very short. We die on the march. but there is nothing outside the march so nothing can be lost to it.

We drift down time, clutching at straws. But what good's a brick to a drowning man?

We've traveled too far, and our momentum has taken over; we move idly towards eternity, without possibility of reprieve or hope of explanation.

...Everything has to be taken on trust; truth is only that what is taken to be true. It's the currency if living. There may be nothing behind it, but it doesn't make any difference so long as it is honoured. One acts on assumptions. What do you assume?

The unpredictable and the predetermined unfold together to make everything the way it is.

If rationality were the criterion for things being allowed to exist, the world would be one gigantic field of soya beans!

A man speaking sense to himself is no madder than a man speaking nonsense not to himself.