I know everything must be a lie, but I believe it anyway.

This pain is comfort. It is the solace of physicality, like a touch.

Doing nothing was as honourable as any available course of action. Think of Hamlet, think of Job, think of Jesus before Pilate.

I stare out at the real world projected on the windows

His suffering was no more real than he was.

Reality, it seems, is not a flat plane, but has as many veils as an onion has skins.

For someone to be perfect, they must be real, however imperfect they are.

It is a matter of mere coincidence that there is often a real individual who corresponds with a celebrity, signifies them.

You need to bridge the gap between reality and freedom. Drugs are the bridge.

I feel underslept but overjoyed. Nothing feels so good as this.

Is the writer cruel that makes his characters suffer only to bring them to triumph or tragedy in the end?

Laughter is the sensation of feeling good all over and showing it principally in one place.

As Christians, our compassion is simply a response to the love that God has already shown us.

Actual happiness always looks pretty squalid in comparison with the over-compensations for misery.

Be different; be unique; be yourself.

To some men popularity is always suspicious. Enjoying none themselves, they are prone to suspect the validity of those attainments which command it.

As long as nothing happens anything is possible.

Existence is an imperfection.

There is something silly about grown men and women striving to reduce their vision of themselves and of civilization to bean counting.

I mean, everybody's star fades in every business; that's just a natural part of life.

Not to be onto something is to be in despair.