One's intelligence may march about and about a problem, but the solution does not come gradually into view. One moment it is not. The next it is there.

In India the odd thing is that English is this almost artificial language floating on the surface of a place with about fifty other languages. The same is true of Nigeria but even more so.

We're all mad, the whole damned race. We're wrapped in illusions, delusions, confusions about the penetrability of partitions, we're all mad and in solitary confinement.

I believe man suffers from an appalling ignorance of his own nature. I produce my own view in the belief that it may be something like the truth.

Of the authors writing in English, I'd mention Shakespeare and Milton. But all this is terribly high-hat and makes me sound very po-faced, I'm afraid; however, I just happen to like these enormous, swinging, great creatures.

One tries to tell a truth, and one hopes that the truth has a general application rather than just a specific one.

Philosophy and Religion-what are they when the wind blows and the water gets up in lumps?