Beauty Always Has Something Remote.

His Head Is Made Of Stars, But Not Yet Arranged Into Constellations.

There Can Be No Creator, Simply Because His Grief At The Fate Of His Creation Would Be Inconceivable And Unendurable.

The Self-explorer, Whether He Wants To Or Not, Becomes The Explorer Of Everything Else.

Someone Who Always Has To Lie Discovers That Every One Of His Lies Is True

There Emanates From Superlatives A Destructive Force.