Also at times, on the surface of streams, Water?bubbles formAnd grow and burstAnd have no meaning at allExcept that they’re water?bubblesGrowing and bursting.

There’s enough metaphysics in not thinking about anything.

It’s stranger than every strangenessAnd the dreams of all the poetsAnd the thoughts of all the philosophers, That things are really what they seem to beAnd there’s nothing to understand.

The man stopped talking and was looking at the sunset.But what does someone who hates and loves want with a sunset?

I don’t always feel what I know I should feel.My thought crosses the river I swim very slowlyBecause the suit men made it wear weighs it down.

I pass and I stay, like the Universe.

A row of trees far away, there on the hillside.But what is it, a row of trees? It’s just trees.Row and the plural trees aren’t things, they’re names.

Even so, I’m somebody.I’m the Discoverer of Nature.I’m the Argonaut of true sensations.I bring a new Universe to the UniverseBecause I bring the Universe to itself.

All beings exist and nothing elseAnd that’s why they’re called beings

Things don’t have significance: they only have existence.Things are the only hidden meaning of things.

Pensar incomoda como andar à chuvaQuando o vento cresce e parece que chove mais.

There are divers men who make a great show of loyalty, and pretend to such discretion in the hidden things they hear, that at the end folk come to put faith in them.

Regardless of whether I can shift my affections to another - and the heart, as you observed, is a notoriously fickle beast - the question remains: should I?

That best of blessings, a contented mind.

There's no great, white bigot; there's just about 200 million little white bigots out there.

...Forgiving is not having to understand. Understanding may come later, in fragments, an insight here and a glimpse there, after forgiving.

When we're in the storm we learn more about the character of the God we serve than when we're on the mountaintop.

What is my loftiest ambition? I've always wanted to throw an egg at an electric fan.

If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'T is when a youthful, loving, modest pair In other's arms breathe out the tender tale

I'd like to own Intel... I'd like to own Microsoft... I'd love to have Warner Bros in my hip pocket.

Every great thinker is someone else's moron.