Waiting for the end, boys, waiting for the end.

. . . life involves maintaining oneself between contradictions that can't be solved by analysis.

It is this deep blankness is the real thing strange.The more things happen to you the more you can'tTell or remember even what they were.

. . . the waste even in a fortunate life, the isolation of a life rich in intimacy, cannot but be felt deeply, and is the central feeling of tragedy. And anything of value must accept this because it must not prostitute itself; its strength is to be prepared to waste itself, if it does not get the opportunity.

Seven types of ambiguity.

The heart of standing is you cannot fly.

The "News," the conferences that leer,the creeping fog, the civil traps.These are what force you into fear.

A humanist, as I understand the term, says, "This world is good enough for me, if only I can be good enough for it."

It seemed the best thing to be up and go.