When something does not insist on being noticed, when we aren't grabbed by the collar or struck on the skull by a presence or an event, we take for granted the very things that most deserve our gratitude.

We were born to die; we were born to endure, on the way to death, sorrow-sorrow in manifold shapes.

Paradise is only for those who have already been there.

What we remember from childhood we remember forever - permanent ghosts, stamped, inked, imprinted, eternally seen.

There's a paradox in rereading. You read the first time for rediscovery: an encounter with the confirming emotions. But you reread for discovery: you go to the known to figure out the workings of the unknown, the why of the familiar how.

What I felt then I feel now: the inexorable, unchanging interior hum of doubt and hope.

To listen acutely is to be powerless, even if you sit on a throne.