That's the price we have to pay for stability. You've got to choose between happiness and what people used to call high art. We've sacrificed high ar… - Aldous Huxley

In the street he drew a deep breath. He was free. Free from recollection and anticipation. Free, for an hour or two, to refuse to admit the existence of the past or future. Free to live only now and here, in the place where his body happened at each instant to be. Free — but the boast was idle; he went on remembering. Escape was not so easy a matter.

After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.

The only good that I can see in the demonstration of the truth of "Spiritualism" is to furnish an additional argument against suicide. Better live a crossing-sweeper than die and be made to talk twaddle by a "medium" hired at a guinea a séance.