His wings were failing, but he refused to fall without a struggle.

The future is but the obsolete in reverse.

Life is a message scribbled in the dark.

I know more than I can express in words, and the little I can express would not have been expressed, had I not known more.

Maybe the only thing that hints at a sense of Time is rhythm; not the recurrent beats of the rhythm but the gap between two such beats, the gray gap between black beats: the Tender Interval.

That swimming, sloping, elusive something about the dark-bluish tint of the iris which seemed still to retain the shadows it had absorbed of ancient, fabulous forests where there were more birds than tigers and more fruit than thorns, and where, in some dappled depth, man's mind had been born.

Which arrow flies for ever? The arrow that has hit its mark.