How can days and happenings and moments so good become so quickly ugly, and for no reason, for no real reason? Just - change. With nothing causing it.
The will to believe chases out the rational mind, whenever and wherever the two come into conflict.
When I believe, I am crazy. When I don’t believe, I suffer psychotic depression.
Giving me a a new idea is like handing a cretin a gun, but I do thank you anyhow, bang bang.
A man is an angel that has gone deranged.
I think great art should play a part in the ordinary man's life, don't you? It can make his existence so much richer and more meaningful.
What constitutes the authentic human being?
Drug misuse is not a disease, it is a decision, like the decision to step out in front of a moving car. You would call that not a disease but an error of judgment.
The odd thing in this world is that an eager-beaver type, with no original ideas, who mimes those in authority above him right to the last twist of necktie and scrape of chin, always gets noticed. Gets selected. Rises.
The wisest people are the clowns, like Harpo Marx, who would not speak. If I could have anything I want I would like God to listen to what Harpo was not saying, and understand why Harpo would not talk.
(Insanity) is not hubris, not pride; it is inflation of the ego to its ultimate - confusion between him who worships and that which is worshipped. Man has not eaten God; God has eaten man.
All responsible writers, to some degree, have become involuntary criers of doom, because doom is in the wind
Science fiction writers, I am sorry to say, really do not know anything. We can't talk about science, because our knowledge of it is limited and unofficial, and usually our fiction is dreadful.
Human has always striven to retain the past, to keep it convincing; there's nothing wicked in that. Without it we have no continuity; we have only the moment. And, deprived of the past, the moment - the present - has little meaning, if any.
The person I am now, compared with the person in the dream, has been baffled and defeated and only supposes he enjoys a full life. In the dreams, I see what a full life really consists of, and it is not what I really have.
He felt all at once like an ineffectual moth, fluttering at the windowpane of reality, dimly seeing it from outside.
The unconscious is selective, when it learns what to listen for.
He started keeping a journal - had been, in fact, secretly doing so for some time: the furtive act of a deranged person.
How'd you like to gaze at a beer can throughout eternity? It might not be so bad. There'd be nothing to fear.
People have told me that everything about me, every facet of my life, psyche, experiences, dreams, and fears, are laid out explicitly in my writing, that from the corpus of my work I can be absolutely and precisely inferred. This is true.
Can we consider the universe real, and if so, in what way?
Everything is true Everything anybody has ever thought
Dilemma of civilized man; body mobilized, but danger obscure.
A weird time in which we are alive. We can travel anywhere we want, even to other planets. And for what? To sit day after day, declining in morale and hope.
If I'd known it was harmless, I'd have killed it myself!
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