In a more universal sense, we only get one thing. You know...a head stone if we're lucky; if not, green grass.

Things get bad for all of us, almost continually, and what we do under the constant stress reveals who/what we are.

Love is a form of prejudice. You love what you need, you love what makes you feel good, you love what is convenient. How can you say you love one person when there are ten thousand people in the world that you would love more if you ever met them? But you'll never meet them.

That’s when I first learned that it wasn’t enough to just do your job, you had to have an interest in it, even a passion for it.

the sea is made of blood

Most people are much better at saying things in letters than in conversation, and some people can write artistic, inventive letters, but when they try a poem or story or novel they become pretentious.

We're all going to die, all of us, what a circus! That alone should make us love each other but it doesn't. We are terrorized and flattened by trivialities, we are eaten up by nothing.