There was no Lo to behold.

The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness.

There is only one real number: one. And love, apparently, is the best exponent of this singularity.

An active and creative reader is a re-reader.

I see nothing for the treatment of my misery but the melancholy and very local palliative of articulate art.

I think it is all a matter of love: the more you love a memory, the stronger and stranger it is.

...for the human brain can become the best torture house of all those it has invented, established and used in a millions of years, in millions of lands, on millions of howling creatures.