Literature is composed of quarter truths, and the quarters are often spent on penny candy.

The expression to write something down suggests a descent of thought to the fingers whose movements immediately falsify it.

I should like to suggest that at least on the face of it a stroke by stroke story of a copulation is exactly as absurd as a chew by chew account of the consumption of a chicken's wing.

The death of God represents not only the realization that gods have never existed, but the contention that such a belief is no longer even irrationally possible: that neither reason nor the taste and temper of the times condones it. The belief lingers on, of course, but it does so like astrology or a faith in a flat earth.

The true alchemists do not change lead into gold; they change the world into words.

The body of Our Saviour shat but Our Saviour shat not.

Of course there is enough to stir our wonder anywhere; there's enough to love, anywhere, if one is strong enough, if one is diligent enough, if one is perceptive, patient, kind enough -- whatever it takes.