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Translation is entirely mysterious. Increasingly I have felt that the art of writing is itself translating, or more like translating than it is like anything else. What is the other text, the original? I have no answer. I suppose it is the source, the deep sea where ideas swim, and one catches them in nets of words and swings them shining into the boat... where in this metaphor they die and get canned and eaten in sandwiches.
He would, wouldn't he?
It's not that they die, but that they die like sheep.
The only difference between me and a madman is that I am not mad.
This is precisely the sort of thing that people who like this sort of thing will like.
I hope people get tired of over-quoting soon.
How to understand human communication in one easy lesson: if it can be read as "please think I am wonderful so I will get sex and money for doing nothing useful", then that's what it means.
Find what you love. Let it kill you.
Once they are walking, most of your effort should go into trying to make your children dangerous rather than trying to make them safe.
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