Solitude Was Corrupting Me.

I See Nothing For The Treatment Of My Misery But The Melancholy And Very Local Palliative Of Articulate Art.

Revelation Can Be More Perilous Than Revolution.

I Cannot Disobey Something Which I Do Not Know And The Reality Of Which I Have The Right To Deny.

Pnin Slowly Walked Under Solemn Pines. The Sky Was Dying. He Did Not Believe In An Autocratic God. He Did Believe, Dimly, In A Democracy Of Ghosts. The Souls Of The Dead, Perhaps, Formed Committees, And These, In Continuous Session, Attended The Destinies Of The Quick.

The Tiny Madman In His Padded Cell.