Only the rational and useful is beautiful.

Is it not clear, however, that bliss and envy are the numerator and denominator of the fraction called happiness?

Those two, in paradise, were given a choice: happiness without freedom, or freedom without happiness. There was no third alternative.

A man is like a novel: until the very last page you don't know how it will end. Otherwise it wouldn't be worth reading.

Heretics are the only bitter remedy against the entropy of human thought.

The knife is the most permanent, the most immortal, the most ingenious of man's creations. The knife was a guillotine; the knife is a universal means of resolving all knots.

It was clear: I was sick. I never used to dream. They say in the old days it was the most normal thing in the world to have dreams. Which makes sense: Their whole life was some kind of horrible merry-go-round of green, orange, Buddha, juice. But today we know that dreams point to a serious mental illness. And I know that up to now my brain has checked out chronometrically perfect, a mechanism without a speck of dust.