We live half our waking lives and all of our sleeping lives in some private, useless, and insensible waters we never mention or recall.

Our life is a faint tracing on the surface of mystery, like the idle, curved tunnels of leaf miners on the face of a leaf.

Our life seems cursed to be a wiggle merely, and a wandering without end.

The courage of children and beasts is a function of innocence.

Evolution loves death more than it loves you or me. This is easy to write, easy to read, and hard to believe.

Why do people in churches seem like cheerful, brainless tourists on a packaged tour of the Absolute?

The dear, stupid body is as easily satisfied as a spaniel.

Unless all ages and races of men have been deluded by the same mass hypnotist (who?), there seems to be such a thing as beauty, a grace wholly gratuitous.

There is no shortage of good days. It is good lives that are hard to come by.

It could be that our faithlessness is a cowering cowardice born of our very smallness, a massive failure of imagination...