The human mind is an evolutionary product, just like the human body.

Imagination is the secret and marrow of civilization. It is the very eye of faith.

Brains are the only things worth having in this world.

Is there no way out of the mind?

To be too conscious is an illness—a real thoroughgoing illness.

The brain is an unreliable organ, it is monstrously great, monstrously developed. Swollen, like a goiter.

Every thought is, strictly speaking, an afterthought.

Sanity is madness put to good uses; waking life is a dream controlled.

What is outside my mind means nothing to it.

The brain may be regarded as a kind of parasite of the organism, a pensioner, as it were, who dwells with the body.

Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t.

What a torture to talk to filled heads that allow nothing from the outside to enter them.

The mind is not, I know, a highway but a temple, and its doors should not be carelessly left open.