But I don't want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin. - Aldous Huxley

I want God, I want poetry, I want danger, I want freedom, I want sin.

The legs, for example, of that chair — how miraculous their tubularity, how supernatural their polished smoothness! I spent several minutes — or was it several centuries? — not merely gazing at those bamboo legs, but actually being them — -or rather being myself in them; or, to be still more accurate (for "I" was not involved in the case, nor in a certain sense were "they") being my Not-self in the Not-self which was the chair.

I have always found that Angels have the vanity to speak of themselves as the only wise.

Nonsense which it would be shameful for a reasonable being to write, speak or hear spoken can be sung or listened to by that same rational being with pleasure and even with a kind of intellectual conviction.