Dead anarchists make martyrs, you know, and keep living for centuries. But absent ones can be forgotten.

It is no secret. All power is one in source and end, I think. Years and distances, stars and candles, water and wind and wizardry, the craft in a man's hand and the wisdom in a tree's root: they all arise together. My name, and yours, and the true name of the sun, or a spring of water, or an unborn child, all are syllables of the great word that is very slowly spoken by the shining of the stars. There is no other power. No other name.

It is a real wilderness, and those who go there should not feel too safe.

Where does your soul go, when you die in Hell?

The model of modern Western civilization is the virus: the pure bit of information, which turns its environment into endless reproductions of itself.

We live in capitalism. Its power seems inescapable. So did the divine right of kings.

You will die. You will not live forever. Nor will any man nor any thing. Nothing is immortal. But only to us is it given to know that we must die. And that is a great gift: the gift of selfhood. For we have only what we know we must lose, what we are willing to lose... That selfhood which is our torment, and our treasure, and our humanity, does not endure. It changes; it is gone, a wave on the sea. Would you have the sea grow still and the tides cease, to save one wave, to save yourself?