I don't prefer to fill my body with antibiotics, pesticides, steroids, and growth hormones - my body is my temple, and I treat it as such.
It's the job of intellectuals and writers to cast doubt on perfection.
People with lots of doubts sometimes find life more oppressive and exhausting than others, but they're more energetic - they aren't robots.
History is a big word. . . . . . . . . . History is not the sort of animal you can domesticate.
The salt of any interesting civilization is mixture.
Perfection spawns doctrines, dictators and totalitarian ideas.
I claim the right to take a stand once in a while.
The heart makes its choices without weighing the consequences. It doesn't look ahead to the lonely nights that follow.
It did not seem possible that Wendy Wright had been born out of blood and internal organs like other people. In proximity to her he felt himself to be a squat, oily, sweating, uneducated nurt whose stomach rattled and whose breath wheezed. Near her he became aware of the physical mechanisms which kept him alive; within him machinery, pipes and valves and gas-compressors and fan belts had to chug away at a losing task, a labor ultimately doomed. Seeing her face, he discovered that his own consisted of a garish mask; noticing her body made him feel like a low-class wind-up toy.
The prayer closet is the arena which produces the overcomer.
Truth is as straight as an arrow, while a lie swivels all over the place. You can hide Truth under a doormat, but eventually the mat will rise very high with Time -- forcing it to reveal all the truths it conceals.