Lock up your libraries if you like; but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind.

And I will now rock the brown basin from side to side so that my ships may ride the waves. Some will founder. Some will dash themselves against the cliffs. One sails alone. That is my ship. It sails into icy caverns where the sea-bear barks and stalactites swing green chairs. The waves rise, their crests curl; look at the lights on the mastheads. They have scattered, they have foundered, all except my ship which mounts the wave and sweeps before the gale and reaches the islands where the parrots chatter and then the creepers.

The future is dark, which is the best thing the future can be, I think.

There is a coherence in things, a stability; something... is immune from change and shines out... in the face of the flowing, the fleeting, the spectral, like a ruby.

Friendships, even the best of them, are frail things. One drifts apart.

It might be possible that the world itself is without meaning.

Let us record the atoms as they fall upon the mind in the order in which they fall.