It is frequently the tragedy of the great artist, as it is of the great scientist, that he frightens the ordinary man.

If there is magic on this planet, it is contained in water.

When the human mind exists in the light of reason and no more than reason, we may say with absolute certainty that Man and all that made him will be in that instant gone.

It has been said repeatedly that one can never, try as he will, get around to the front of the universe. Man is destined to see only its far side, to realize nature only in retreat.

If it should turn out that we have mishandled our own lives as several civilizations before us have done, it seems a pity that we should involve the violet and the tree frog in our departure.

The great artist, whether he be musician, painter, or poet, is known for this absolute unexpectedness.

It is a commonplace of all religious thought, even the most primitive, that the man seeking visions and insight must go apart from his fellows and love for a time in the wilderness.

The journey is difficult, immense. We will travel as far as we can, but we cannot in one lifetime see all that we would like to see or to learn all that we hunger to know.

Each one of us is a statistical impossibility around which hover a million other lives that were never destined to be born.

We cannot pluck a flower witout disturbing a star.

We are one of many appearances of the thing called Life; we are not its perfect image, for it has no perfect image except Life, and life is multitudinous and emergent in the stream of time.

For one last time, I said my goodbyes to the place I’d known as home for the last decade, and for the first time, I welcomed the unknown.

You know, what we list as a hate group are groups that vilify or defame entire groups of people, typically for their immutable characteristics.

The white audiences thought I was white, my features being what they are, and at every performance I'd have to take off my gloves to prove I was a spade.

Everybody is headed for the same place, and they are headed on the same train, and under the same engineer.

Muse, time has taught me that all metaphysical systems, even historical facts given as truths, are hardly that, so I amuse myself with more agreeable lies; I no longer read anything but novels.

When I am so intensely involved with writing my books I don't like to reread them.

Ryssa? How do you know her name was Ryssa? (Tory) Uh…I don’t. I just gave her a name. It seemed more polite than calling her ‘hey, you, ancient chick.’ (Acheron)

For every man the world is as fresh as it was at the first day, and as full of untold novelties for him who has the eyes to see them.

Bryant Gumbel's ego has applied for statehood. And if it's accepted, it will be the fifth-largest.