How can one know anything at all about people?
We are aware only of the empty space in the forest, which only yesterday was filled with trees.
If some longing goes unmet, don't be astonished. We call that Life.
Why do we go around acting as though everything was friendship and reliability when basically everything everywhere is full of sudden hate and ugliness?
A first visit to a madhouse is always a shock.
What I have always wanted for myself is much more primitive. It is probably nothing more than the affection of the people with whom I am in contact, and their good opinion of me.