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Nye inntrykk yngler ustanselig fortere, vi får nå flere på en dag enn vi før fikk på måneder og år, de myldrer inn med telegraf, med aviser, med telefon. Og når vi reiser ut for å utvide horisonten, farer vi gjennom mer på en uke enn vi før så på et år. Og den stakkars hjernen strever med alt dette stoffet, den har ikke fulgt med i utviklingen, dens romfang og evne er begrenset som de var, mens stoffet, inntrykkene er blitt ubegrenset, - den klarer det ikke lenger. Vi ser, hører ulike mer; men vi lærer mindre. - Det må med logisk nødvendighet bli overfladiskhet, det blir umulig å gå i dybden - det blir mangel på originalitet, mangel på personlighet.

Most of you are at the metallic stage of your lives: Silver in your hair, gold in your teeth, and in the case of the men, lead in your trousers.

Woman Looking in Mirror, said to be an allegory of vanity. Though it is unlikely to be vanity, but the reverse: a search for flaws. What is it about me? can so easily be construed as What is wrong with me?

"This isn't about love and hate," Helen says. It's about control. People don't sit down and read a poem to kill their child. They just want the child to sleep. They just want to dominate. No matter how much you love someone, you still want to have your own way."

Every place is the same place. Kadzu. Zebra mussels. Water hyacinths. Starlings. Burger Kings.
The local natives, anything unique gets squeezed out.
"The only biodiversity we're going to have left," he says, "is Coke versus Pepsi."

Doesen't reincarnation strike you as just another form of procrastination?

Experts in ancient Greek culture say that people back then didn't see their thoughts as belonging to them. When ancient Greek had a thought, it occured to them as a god or goddess giving an order. Apollo was telling them to be brave. Athena was telling them to fall in love.
Now people hear a commercial for sour cream potato chips and rush out to buy, but now they call this free will.

These distraction-oholics. These focus-ophobics.
Old George Orwell got it backward.
Big Brother isn't watching. He's singing and dancing. He's pulling rabbits out of a hat. Big Brother's busy holding your attention every moment you're awake. He's making sure you're always distracted. He's making sure you're fully absorbed.

Look to the sky, look to yourself and remember: we are only god's echoes and god is Narcissus.

The break with the past, whenever it had occured, had been clean; the early years of idealism belonged to an unremembered time. You could get the details in books. As for the present, you had to fiure it out for yourself. You had to know where you stood, and you had to be careful.

The laws that keep us safe, these same laws condemn us to boredom. Without access to true chaos, we'll never have true peace. Unless everything can get worse, it won't get any better.

"You know what they say: Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.” ”Well, you know what else they say: Where there’s blood , there’s a hard-on.”

“Strange and mysterious things, though, aren’t they — earthquakes? We take it for granted that the earth beneath our feet is solid and stationary. We even talk about people being ‘down to earth’ or having their feet firmly planted on the ground. But suddenly one day we see that it isn’t true. The earth, the boulders, that are supposed to be so solid, all of a sudden turn as mushy as liquid.”

Writing personally is exposing and concealing at the same time.

Men don't pay you to sleep with them. They pay you to go home.

Først tenkte jeg at hun var en av de sjeldne kvinnene som ikke brukte fitta som spillemerke. Men senere har jeg skjønt at hennes glade hengivenhet til alt og alle er enda mer utspekulert. Det er stor makt i det å ikke gi den andre grunn til misnøye.

Uverdig er den vulgære elskertype som foretrekker kroppen for sjelen. Hans elskov blir flyktig som gjenstanden selv: straks det elskede legeme falmer og visner, "legger han ut på sin vingede flukt" og gjør gamle ord og løfter til skamme. Men den som elsker et verdig sinn, smelter sammen med noe som har bestand og blir en venn for livet.

En møy er verd all ære, men blir hun ikke mor,
da er hun som et bed, med god, men usådd jord.