Not to be onto something is to be in despair.

The present age is demented. It is possessed by a sense of dislocation, a loss of personal identity, an alternating sentimentality and rage which, in an individual patient, could be characterized as dementia.

Why is it that one can look at a lion or a planet or an owl or at someone's finger as long as one pleases, but looking into the eyes of another person is, if prolonged past a second, a perilous affair?

Losing hope is not so bad. There's something worse: losing hope and hiding it from yourself.

You live in a deranged age, more deranged than usual because in spite of great scientific and technological advances, man has not the faintest idea of who he is or what he is doing.

My mother refused to let me fail. So I insisted.

Small disconnected facts, if you take note of them, have a way of becoming connected.