Such certainty is beautiful, but uncertainty is more beautiful still

Every beginning is only a sequel, after all, and the book of events is always open halfway through.

Animals don't even try to look any different from what nature intended. They humbly wear their shells, scales, spines, plumes, pelts, and down. ... The conscious impulse to change one's appearance is found only among humans.

Something doesn't start at its usual time. Something doesn't happen as it should. Someone was always, always here, then suddenly disappeared and stubbornly stays disappeared.

I'm old-fashioned and think that reading books is the most glorious pastime that humankind has yet devised.

All the best have something in common, a regard for reality, an agreement to its primacy over the imagination.

Is a decision made in advance really any kind of choice?