I Felt Like Poisoning A Monk.

The Roseicrucians Were Everywhere, Aided By The Fact That They Didn't Exist.

I Felt No Passion, No Jealousy, No Nostalgia. I Was Hollow, Clear-headed, Clean, And As Emotionless As An Aluminum Pot.

We Are Formed By Little Scraps Of Wisdom.

I Write What I Write.

Books Are Not Made To Be Believed, But To Be Subjected To Inquiry. When We Consider A Book, We Mustn't Ask Ourselves What It Says But What It Means.