Just because you’re naked doesn’t mean you’re sexy. Just because you’re cynical doesn’t mean you’re cool.
Magic things are fond of deceptions.
Of the Seven Dwarfs, the only one who shaved was Dopey. That should tell us something about the wisdom of shaving.
There is a comfort in conformity, a security in control, that is appealing. There is a thrill in domination, and we are all secretly attracted to violence.
When we accept small wonders, we qualify ourselves to imagine great wonders.
Gods and men create one another, destroy one another, though by different means.
There is a sense in which a painted stick is a stick in bloom. This stick points to the hidden face of God. Sometimes it points to you.
Leave it to a naive world-saver like you to view our love as a Sacred Cause when in actual fact all it was was some barking at the moon.
Political activism is seductive because it seems to offer the possibility that one can improve society, make things better, without going through the personal ordeal of rearranging one’s perceptions and transforming one’s self.
Sometimes one gets the feeling that life still thinks it’s living in Paris in the ’30s.
It is what it is. You are what you are. There are no mistakes.
All dreams continue in the beyond.
This is the room of the wolfmother wallpaper.
If complexity doesn’t beat you, paradox will.
Conservatives understand Halloween, liberals only understand Christmas. If you want to control a population, don’t give it social services, give it a scary adversary.
Dip a slice of bread in batter. That’s September: yellow, gold, soft and sticky. Fry the bread. Now you have October: chewier, drier, streaked with browns. The day in question fell somewhere in the middle of the french toast process.
The first thunderstorm of the season was in the dressing room, donning its black robes and its necklace of hailstones, strapping on its electrical sword.
Summer had come to sit on New York’s face.
What mattered to Abu was the music of the sentence. ‘A shadow does not belong to the object that casts it.’ To Abu, it was a little poem. And in general, it was the poetics, the music of things that tossed his confetti.
The party in Alobar’s head, which agitation and anxiety were throwing, now was crashed by a notion: existence can be rearranged.