The ordinary-sized stuff which is our lives, the things people write poetry about—clouds—daffodils—waterfalls—what happens in a cup of coffee when the cream goes in—these things are full of mystery, as mysterious to us as the heavens were to the Greeks.

Save the gerund and screw the whale.

The days of the digitals are numbered. The metaphor is built into them like a self-destruct mechanism.

You think human nature is a beast, that it must be put in a cage. But it's the cage that makes the animal bad.

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

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

The causes we know everything about depend on causes we know very little about, which depend on causes we know absolutely nothing about.