“Writing, to me, is simply thinking through my fingers.”

Education isn’t something you can finish.

Anything you make forbidden gains sexual attractiveness. Would you be particularly interested in women’s breasts if you lived in a society in which they were displayed at all times?

Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It’s the transition that’s troublesome.

I figure that if God actually does exist, he is big enough to understand an honest difference of opinion.

The cure for advanced gullibility is to go to sleep and consider matters again the next day.

I do not fear computers. I fear the lack of them.

I don’t subscribe to the thesis, ‘Let the buyer beware,’ I prefer the disregarded one that goes, ‘Let the seller be honest.’

The intelligent man is never bored.

If knowledge can create problems, it is not through ignorance that we can solve them.

Better to make a good future than predict a bad one.

You don’t have to be able to lay eggs to know when one of them is rotten.

There is no belief, however foolish, that will not gather its faithful adherents who will defend it to the death.

Any fool can tell a crisis when it arrives. The real service to the state is to detect it in embryo.

If I am right, then (religious fundamentalists) will not go to Heaven, because there is no Heaven. If they are right, then they will not go to Heaven, because they are hypocrites.

Feminine intuition? Is that what you wanted the robot for? You men. Faced with a woman reaching a correct conclusion and unable to accept the fact that she is your equal or superior in intelligence, you invent something called feminine intuition.

Since emotions are few and reasons are many (said the robot Giscard) the behavior of a crowd can be more easily predicted than the behavior of one person.

In many parts of the world, a man’s accusing finger always finds a woman. But I think we need women to solve the problems that men create.

Someone asked me what home was and all I could think of were the stars on the tip of your tongue, the flowers sprouting from your mouth, the roots entwined in the gaps between your fingers, the ocean echoing inside of your ribcage.

Someone asked me what home was and all I could think of were the stars on the tip of your tongue, the flowers sprouting from your mouth, the roots entwined in the gaps between your fingers, the ocean echoing inside of your ribcage.

Someone asked me what home was and all I could think of were the stars on the tip of your tongue, the flowers sprouting from your mouth, the roots entwined in the gaps between your fingers, the ocean echoing inside of your ribcage.

Love is like quicksilver in the hand. Leave the fingers open and it stays. Clutch it and it darts away.

Like a compass needle that points north, a man’s accusing finger always finds a woman. Always.

Jesus humbled himself. He went from commanding angels to sleeping in the straw. From holding stars to clutching Mary’s finger. The palm that held the universe took the nail of a soldier. Why? Because that’s what love does. It puts the beloved before itself.

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.