I think it's one of the scars in our culture that we have too high an opinion of ourselves. We align ourselves with the angels instead of the higher primates.
At the best of times, spring hurts depressives.
Is not this world an illusion? And yet it fools everybody.
Sad; so sad, those smoky-rose, smoky-mauve evenings of late Autumn, sad enough to pierce the heart.
Reading a book is like re-writing it for yourself.
I know that whenever a group of women are gathered together, the grandmother always makes a phantom appearance, hovering above them.