Literature Is Humanity's Broad-minded Alter-ego, With Room

Bliss Defies Description, Obviously, Since It Annihilates You, Since You're Not There To Experience It. You Get The Lead-up And The Come-down, Never The Zenith.

I Don’t Know Where The Universe Came From Or What Happens To Creatures When They Die. I Don’t Know If The Whole Thing’s An Unravelling Accident Or An Inscrutable Design. I Don’t Know How One Should Live—but I Know That One Should Live, If One Can Possibly Bear It.

Life Compulsively Dangled The Possibility Of Life. Life, The Dramatist On Speed. Life, That Couldn't Stop With Its Foreshadows And Ironies And Symbols And Clues, Its Wretched Jokes And False Endings And Twists. Life With Its Hopeless Addiction To Plot.

Pain Is Beyond Reason, An Obliterating Giant Stupidity To Which All Your History Of Jokes And Nuance And Ideas And Caresses Is Nothing, Simply Nothing.

You Can't Blame Me. I Mean That Literally. You're Incapable Of Blaming Me. You're Human. Being Human Is Choosing Freedom Over Imprisonment, Autonomy Over Dependency, Liberty Over Servitude. You Can't Blame Me Because You Know (come On, Man, You've Always Known) That The Idea Of Spending Eternity With Nothing To Do Except Praise God Is Utterly Unappealing. You'd Be Catatonic After An Hour. Heaven's A Swiz Because To Get In You Have To Leave Yourself Outside. You Can't Blame Me Because -- Now Do Please Be Honest With Yourself For Once -- You'd Have Left, Too.