To be in a world which is a hell, to be of that world and neither to believe in or guess at anything but that world is not merely hell but the only possible damnation: the act of a man damning himself. It may be -- I hope it is -- redemption to guess and perhaps perceive that the universe, the hell which we see for all its beauty, vastness, majesty, is only part of a whole which is quite unimaginable.
Life's scientific, but we don't know, do we? Not certainly, I mean.
Which is better -- to be a pack of painted Indians like you are, or to be sensible like Ralph is? Which is better -- to have rules and agree, or to hunt and kill? Which is better, law and rescue, or hunting and breaking things up?
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.
Life should serve up its feast of experience in a series of courses.
He who rides the sea of the Nile must have sails woven of patience.
My yesterdays walk with me. They keep step, they are gray faces that peer over my shoulder.
Among the virtues and vices that make up the British character, we have one vice, at least, that Americans ought to view with sympathy. For they appear to be the only people who share it with us. I mean our worship of the antique. I do not refer to beauty or even historical association. I refer to age, to a quantity of years.
How can you expect to be rescued if you don’t put first things first and act proper?
It is at least scientifically respectable to postulate that at the centre of a black hole the laws of nature no longer apply. Since most scientists are just a bit religious and most religious are seldom wholly unscientific we find humanity in a comical position. His scientific intellect believes in the possibility of miracles inside a black hole while his religious intellect believes in them outside it.
It may be -- I hope it is -- redemption to guess and perhaps perceive that the universe, the hell which we see for all its beauty, vastness, majesty, is only part of a whole which is quite unimaginable.
How would I myself live in this proposed society? How long would it be before I went stark staring mad?
Novelists do not write as birds sing, by the push of nature. It is part of the job that there should be much routine and some daily stuff on the level of carpentry.
The writer probably knows what he meant when he wrote a book, but he should immediately forget what he meant when he's written it.
The candle-buds opened their wide white flowers....Their scent spilled out into the air and took possession of the island.
There were no words, and no movements but the tearing of teeth and claws.
A star appeared...and was momentarily eclipsed by some movement.
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