We are most deeply asleep at the switch when we fancy we control any switches at all.

Could Faulkner find a publisher now?

Every spring he vowed to quit teaching school, and every summer he missed his pupils and searched for them on the streets.

The secret of seeing is to sail on solar wind. Hone and spread your spirit till you yourself are a sail, whetted, translucent, broadside to the merest puff.

Every live thing is a survivor on a kind of extended emergency bivouac.

The universe is illusion merely, not one speck of it real, and we are not only its victims, falling always into or smashed by a planet slung by the sun-but also its captives, bound by the mineral-made ropes of our senses.