The Man in the High Castle (Penguin Modern Classics)

Emulation of more noxious aspects of adolescence, rather than the clearheaded pristine innocence of authentic childhood.

On some other world, possibly it is different. Better. There are clear good and evil alternatives. Not these obscure admixtures, these blends, with no proper tool by which to untangle the components.

Bardo Thödol existence, Mr Tagomi thought.

We really do see astigmatically, in fundamental sense: our space and our time creations of our own psyche, and when these momentarily falter – like acute disturbance of middle ear.

I want to comprehend. I have to. But he knew he never would. Just be glad, he thought. And keep moving.

One seeks to contravene one’s perceptions – why? So that one can wander utterly lost, without signposts or guide?

correct: I must not shrink from the clear white light, for if I do, I will once more reenter the cycle of birth and death, never knowing freedom, never obtaining release.

Death at each moment, one avenue which is open to us at any point. And eventually we choose it, in spite of ourselves. Or we give up and take it deliberately.

I am a mask, concealing the real. Behind me, hidden, actuality goes on, safe from prying eyes. Odd, he thought. Vital sometimes to be merely cardboard front, like carton.