In no other sport must the spectator move.
Revolution is just one crowd taking power from another.
From infancy on, we are all spies; the shame is not this but that the secrets to be discovered are so paltry and few.
Time is our element, not a mistaken invader.
The great thing about the dead, they make space.
Figure out where you’re going before you go there: he was told that a long time ago.
Sun and moon, sun and moon, time goes.
The stripped and shapely Maple grieves The ghosts of her Departed leaves. The ground is hard, As hard as stone. The year is old, The birds are flown.
Dost thou love life? Then do not squander time, for that’s the stuff life is made of. Suspect each moment, for it is a thief, tiptoeing away with more than it brings.
The measure of artistic merit is the length to which a writer is willing to go in following his own compulsions.
You cannot help but learn more as take the world into your hands. Take it up reverently, for it is and old piece of clay, with millions of thumbprints on it.
Life is like an overlong drama through which we sit being nagged by the vague memories of having read the reviews.
What would men be without women? Scarce, sir, mighty scarce. Mark Twain Women are an alien race set down among us.
I imagine most of that stuff on the information highway is roadkill anyway.
Among the repulsions of atheism for me has been its drastic un-interestingness as an intellectual position. Where was the ingenuity, the ambiguity, the humanity of saying that the universe just happened to happen and that when we’re dead we’re dead?
You always find things you didn’t know you were going to say, and that is the adventure...
Celebrity is a mask that eats into the face. As soon as one is aware of being somebody, to be watched and listened to with extra interest, input ceases, and the performer goes blind and deaf in his over-animation. One can either see or be seen.
The scrape and snap of Keds on loose alley pebbles seems to catapult their voices high into the moist March air blue above the wires.
We are each of us like our little blue planet, hung in black space, upheld by nothing but our mutual reassurances, our loving lies.
One does not go to Moscow to get fat.