“Fame is the beauty parlor of the dead.”

Life undulates; there is no such thing as a level; a straight line is a myth, and all directions are indirections.

Life is a series of guesses, and there is mystery in a match. The commonplace is the habitual, and the habitual is a mystery that has grown stale from sense-insistence.

My studies in Speculative philosophy, metaphysics, and science are all summed up in the image of a mouse called man running in and out of every hole in the Cosmos hunting for the Absolute Cheese.

Everything is grounded in mystery. Everything is swimming, and the stable does not exist.

Progress is nothing but the victory of laughter over dogma.

I’ll have a desk like this in my parlor and white walls and a clean green blotter every Saturday night and a row of shining yellow pencils always sharpened for writing and a golden-brown bowl with a flower or some leaves or berries always in it and books . . . books . . . books. . . .