All of us are mad. If it weren't for the fact that every one of us is slightly abnormal, there wouldn't be any point in giving each person a separate name.

We play make believe, pretend to take ourselves and each other seriously--to love each other, hate each other--but then--it isn't true. It isn't true, we don't care at all!

Thought itself needs words. It runs on them like a long wire. And if it loses the habit of words, little by little it becomes shapeless, somber.

To believe in God is to know that all the rules will be fair, and that there will be wonderful surprises.

It's perfectly obvious that somebody's responsible and somebody's innocent. Otherwise it [justice] makes no sense at all.

The spontaneity of slaps is sincerity, whereas the ceremonial of caresses is largely convention.

Memories are like stones, time and distance erode them like acid.