Without sex, we would be dangerously invulnerable. We might believe we were not ridiculous. We wouldn't know rejection and humiliation so intimately.

Every time we feel satisfied with what we have, we can be counted as rich, however little we may actually possess.

Journeys are the midwives of thought. Few places are more conducive to internal conversations than moving planes, ships or trains.

Only as we mature does affection begin to depend on achievement.

The price we have paid for expecting to be so much more than our ancestors is a perpetual anxiety that we are far from being all we might be.

Unnatural to expect that learning to be happy should be any easier than, say, learning to play the violin or require any less practice.

There's a whole category of people who miss out by not allowing themselves to be weird enough.