There is no great sport in having bullets flying about one in every direction, but I find they have less horror when among them than when in anticipation.

Is it worth it to be born if you cannot remember it later? And, technically speaking, had I ever been born? Other people, of course, said that I was. As far as I know, I was born in late April, at sixty years of age, in a hospital room.

A human best, which is very little. Its hard to accept the idea that there cannot be an order in the universe because it would offend the free will of God and His omnipotence. So the freedom of God is our condemnation, or at least the condemnation of our pride.

A library's ideal function is to be a little bit like a bouquiniste's stall, a place for trouvailles.

Love flourishes in expectation. Expectation strolls through the spacious fields of Time towards Opportunity.

"Then we are living in a place abandoned by God," I said, disheartened. "Have you found any places where God would have felt at home?" William asked me, looking down from his great height.

History is a blood-drenched enigma and the world an error.