Hell is—other people!

I think of death only with tranquility, as an end. I refuse to let death hamper life. Death must enter life only to define it.

You are -- your life, and nothing else.

I never could bear the idea of anyone's expecting something from me. Italways made me want to do just the opposite.

At an age when most children are playing hopscotch or with their dolls, you, poor child, who had no friends or toys, you toyed with dreams of murder, because that is a game to play alone.

Much more likely you’ll hurt me. Still what does it matter? If I’ve got to suffer, it may as well be at your hands, your pretty hands.

You're lucky. I'm always conscious of myself —in my mind. Painfully conscious.

Good digestions, the gray monotony of provincial life, and the boredom—ah the soul-destroying boredom—of long days of mild content.

Man must be happy, as happy as a poor child cheerfully playing with his poor toy!

Spare the rod and spoil the child.

I love listening to music on holiday, and back in the old days, I used to travel with cassette tapes and a boombox.

On the ostensible exactitude of certain branches of human knowledge, including mathematics. The exactness is a fake.

Reason dies collapsing under its own load.

Nothing is rarer than the use of a word in its exact meaning.

My sound is super hybrid; the acoustic sounds are there and the electronic sounds are there.

Inside every adult there's still a child that lingers.

Community is not an ideal; it is people. It is you and I. In community we are called to love people just as they are with their wounds and their gifts, not as we want them to be.

If a tax hike makes it to my desk, I'll veto it in less time than it takes Vanna White to turn the letters V-E-T-O!