For most men life is a search for a proper manilla envelope in which to get themselves filed.

Knowledge is one. Its division into subjects is a concession to human weakness.

Only the human mind invents categories and tries to force facts into separated pigeonholes.

Probably a crab would be filled with a sense of personal outrage if it could hear us class it without ado or apology as a crustacean, and thus dispose of it. 'I am no such thing,' it would say; 'I am MYSELF, MYSELF alone.'

We think that if we can label a thing we have understood it.

Either people walk round dressed as chickens or they listen to Beethoven.