What hope has any endeavor which is based on hate and fear? - David Brin

Well, organic imagination doesn’t have to make sense, I recalled. Nor must paranoia be reasonable. It’s a beast that barks at nothing…till the day it’s right.

Words penetrated the tank from the outer room. They were tantalizing, like those ghosts of meaning in a great symphony—hinting that the composer had caught a glimpse of something notes could only vaguely convey and words could never even approach.

It’s an austere, terrifying sensation. A reminder of something we all suppress most of the time, because it hurts so much.
The stark loneliness of individuality.
The essential alienness of others.
And of the universe itself.