The ever-rising cost of living: Someday soon, the corporate technicians will be locking meters on our noses and charging us a royalty on the air we breathe.
Belief in the supernatural reflects a failure of the imagination.
A world without open country would be universal jail.
Life is unfair. And it's not fair that life is unfair.
In all of nature, there is no sound more pleasing than that of a hungry animal at its feed. Unless you are the food.
Why must love always be accompanied--sooner or later--by sorrow and pain? Why not? Because pure bliss is for pure idiots.
I despise my own nation most. Because I know it best. Because I still love it, suffering from Hope. For me, that's patrotism.
By the age of eighteen, a human has acquired enough joy and heartache to provide the food of reflection for a century.
I do not believe in personal immortality; it seems so unnecessary. Show me one man who deserves to live forever.
I suppose each of us has his own fantasy of how he wants to die. I would like to go out in a blaze of glory, myself, or maybe simply disappear someday, far out in the heart of the wilderness I love, all by myself, alone with the Universe and whatever God may happen to be looking on. Disappear - and never return. That's my fantasy.
Life is hard? True - but let's love it anyhow, though it breaks every bone in our bodies.
A giant thirst is a great joy when quenched in time.
To be alive is to take risks; to be always safe and secure is death.
At some point we must draw a line across the ground of our home and our being, drive a spear into the land and say to the bulldozers, earthmovers, government and corporations, "thus far and no further." If we do not, we shall later feel, instead of pride, the regret of Thoreau, that good but overly-bookish man, who wrote, near the end of his life, "If I repent of anything it is likely to be my good behaviour.
The function of an ideal is not to be realized but, like that of the North Star, to serve as a guiding point.
Grown men do not need leaders.
All governments require enemy governments.
There is a fine art to making enemies and it requires diligent cultivation. It's not as easy as it looks.
Don't talk to me about other worlds, separate realities, lost continents or invisible realms -- I know where I belong. Heaven is home. Utopia is here. Nirvana is now.
In this glare of brilliant emptiness, in this arid intensity of pure heat, in the heart of a weird solitude, great silence and grand desolution, all things recede to distrances out of reach, relecting light but impossible to touch, annihilating all thought and all that men have made to a spasm of whirling dust far out on the golden desert.
If we had the power of ten Shakespeares or a dozen Mozarts, we could not produce anything half so marvelous as one ordinary human child.
We are kindred all of us, killer and victim, predator and prey, me and the sly coyote, the soaring buzzard, the elegant gopher snake, and trembling cottontail, the foul worms that feed on our entrails; all of them, all of us. Long live diversity, long live the earth!
The ready availability of suicide, like sex and alcohol, is one of life's basic consolations.
By the age of forty, a man is responsible for his face. And his fate.
The rebel is doomed to a violent death. The rest of us can look forward to sedated expiration in a coma inside an oxygen tent, with tubes inserted in every bodily orifice.
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