For a moment I had a strange intuition that just this, and in a real, profound sense, is life; and perhaps happiness even - love with a mixture of sadness, reverence, and silent knowledge.

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Life is a disease, brother, and death begins already at birth. Every breath, every heartbeat, is a moment of dying - a little shove toward the end.

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Strange how complicated we can make things just to avoid showing what we feel!

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Good or ill, life is life; you only realize that when you have to risk it.

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We are forlorn like children, and experienced like old men, we are crude and sorrowful and superficial—I believe we are lost.

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We have our dreams because without them we could not bear the truth.

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But probably that's the way of the world - when we have finally learned something we're too old to apply it - and so it goes, wave after wave, generation after generation. No one learns anything at all from anyone else.

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To forget is the secret of eternal youth. One grows old only through memory. There's much too little forgetting.

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Every little bean must be heard as well as seen!

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With blinded eyes I stared at the sky, this grey, endless sky of a crazy god, who had made life and death for his amusement.

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