We are imprisoned in the realm of life, like a sailor on his tiny boat, on an infinite ocean.

If some longing goes unmet, don't be astonished. We call that Life.

Who promised you that only for joy were you brought to this earth?

We are aware only of the empty space in the forest, which only yesterday was filled with trees.

The horrors of war, pale beside the loss of a mother

Everything becomes so problematic because of basic faults: from a discontent with myself.

Create around one at least a small circle where matters are arranged as one wants them to be.