The Word Is The Most Imprecise Of

It Is Only When Our Characters And Events Begin To Disobey Us That They Begin To Live.

I Am Infinitely Strange To Myself.

Our Accepting What We Are Must Always Inhibit Our Being What We Ought To Be.

The Battle Was Over. Our Casualties Were Some Thirteen Thousand Killed--thirteen Thousand Minds, Memories, Loves, Sensations, Worlds, Universes--because The Human Mind Is More A Universe Than The Universe Itself--and All For A Few Hundred Yards Of Useless Mud.

I Think We Are Just Insects, We Live A Bit And Then Die And That’s The Lot. There’s No Mercy In Things. There’s Not Even A Great Beyond. There’s Nothing.