There are no ambitions noble enough to justify breaking someone's heart.

The bird with the thorn in its breast, it follows an immutable law; it is driven by it knows not what to impale itself, and die singing. At the very instant the thorn enters there is no awareness in it of the dying to come; it simply sings and sings until there is not the life left to utter another note. But we, when we put the thorns in our breasts, we know. We understand. And still we do it. Still we do it.

There was some justice in his pain

What was sleep? A blessing, a respite from life, an echo of death, a demanding nuisance?

Old age is an ordeal, of flesh and mind. Of winding down, of slowing down, of dying cells. It's accepting the loss of physical attractiveness and replacing it with the power and wisdom that can only come with old age.

There is no doubt that it is more difficult to read and more difficult to write but I still manage.

There are no ambitions noble enough to justify breaking someone's heart.