...the habit of despair is worse than despair itself.
... We need the sweet pain of anticipation to tell us we are really alive.
Yes, and when the love of life disappears, no meaning can console us.
I've never really had much of an imagination. But still I would try to picture the exact moment when the beating of my heart would no longer be going on inside my head.
Beginning to think is beginning to be undermined.
We turn our backs on nature; we are ashamed of beauty. Our wretched tragedies have a smell of the office clinging to them, and the blood that trickles from them is the color of printer's ink.