He started keeping a journal – had been, in fact, secretly doing so for some time: the furtive act of a deranged person.
Dilemma of civilized man; body mobilized, but danger obscure.
They wanted to have a good time, but they were like children playing in the street; they could see one after another of them being killed – run over, maimed, destroyed – but they continued to play anyhow.
The frogs hopping indoors agree that we are on a prison planet. They themselves are frog criminals that were convicted of doing frog crimes.
Amazed, Fat said, “She’s decomposing and yet she’s still giving birth?” “Only to monsters,” Dr. Stone said.
But an artist, he realized. Or rather so-called artist. Bohemian. That’s closer to it. The artistic life without the talent.
The mentally disturbed do not employ the Principle of Scientific Parsimony: the most simple theory to explain a given set of facts. They shoot for the baroque.
How can days and happenings and moments so good become so quickly ugly, and for no reason, for no real reason? Just – change. With nothing causing it.
Either I’ve invented a whole new logic or, ahem, I’m not playing with a full deck.
No man is infinitely strong; for every creature that runs, flies, hops or crawls there is a terminal nemesis which he will not circumvent, which will finally do him in.
In a one-party system there is always a landslide.
Giving me a a new idea is like handing a cretin a gun, but I do thank you anyhow, bang bang.
That is the artist’s job: take mineral rock from dark silent earth, transform it into shining light-reflecting form from sky.
In my writing I even question the universe; I wonder out loud if it is real, and I wonder out loud if all of us are real.
Those who refused to respond to new stimulus would perish. Adapt or perish.
I never liked the idea of doing what a machine says. I hate having to salute something built in a factory.
It’s not what happened but how it is told.
He entered the elevator and together they moved closer to god.
Odd that the brain could function on its own, without acquainting him with its purposes, its reasons. But the brain was an organ, like the spleen, heart, kidneys. And they went about their private activities. So why not the brain?
How’d you like to gaze at a beer can throughout eternity? It might not be so bad. There’d be nothing to fear.