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Death is for a long time. Those of shallow thought say that it is forever. There is, at least, a long night of it. There is the forgetfulness and the loss of identity. The spirit, even as the body, is unstrung and burst and scattered. One goes down to death, and it leaves a mark on one forever.

You shouldn't worry about what people think of you because they don't do it that often.

As long as you are breathing you can always be more scared.

The world has created no living thing that it does not intend to destroy.

Those who choose a love that can never be fulfilled will be hounded by a rage that can never be extinguished.

If mathematical objects exist independently of human thought what else are they independent of? The universe, I suppose.

Your life is set upon you like a dog.

Rage is only for what you believe can be fixed. All the rest is grief.

He wrote in his little black book by the light of the oil lamp. Mercy is the province of the person alone. There is mass hatred and there is mass grief. Mass vengeance and even mass suicide. But there is no mass forgiveness. There is only you. We pour water upon the child and name it. Not to fix it in our hearts but in our clutches. The daughters of men sit in half darkened closets inscribing messages upon their arms with razorblades and sleep is no part of their life.

Paul, there is something very slack about a future that will take a biting satire for a vapid dream.

If the world has a mind then it's all worse than we thought.

The arrival of language was like the invasion of a parasitic system. Co-opting those areas of the brain that were the least dedicated. The most susceptible to appropriation.