A profound love between two people involves, after all, the power and chance of doing profound hurt.
Almost anything carried to a logical extreme becomes depressing.
Can true function arise from basic dysfunction?
I've got some gift for languages. You follow your gift. But Latin's not easy.
In the airport, luggage-laden people rush hither and yon through endless corridors, like souls to each of whom the devil has furnished a different, inaccurate map of the escape route from hell.
There are souls, he thought, whose umbilicus has never been cut. They never got weaned from the universe. They do not understand death as an enemy; they look forward to rotting and turning into humus.