May 28, 1916|
|Died||May 10, 1990
|Genre||Philosophical novelist, Memoir, Essays|
|Spouse||Mary Bernice Townsend|
We love those who know the worst of us and don't turn their faces away.
Hatred strikes me as one of the few signs of life remaining in the world. This is another thing about the world which is upsidedown: all the friendly and likable people seem dead to me; only the haters seem alive.
You live in a deranged age, more deranged that usual, because in spite of great scientific and technological advances, man has not the faintest idea of who he is or what he is doing.
The search is what anyone would undertake if he were not sunk in the everydayness of his own life. To become aware of the possibility of the search is to be onto something. Not to be onto something is to be in despair.