What you see is not what we see. What you see is distracted by memory, by being who you are, all this time, for all these years.

War is the form nostalgia takes when men are hard-pressed to say something good about their country.

How many beginnings before you see the lies in your excitement?

That's why people take vacations. No to relax or find excitement or see new places. To escape the death that exists in routine things.

You need to know things the others don't know. It's what no one knows about you that allows you to know yourself.

Her death would leave me scattered, talking to chairs and pillows. Don't let us die, I want to cry out to that fifth-century sky ablaze with mystery and spiral light. Let us both live forever, in sickness and health, feebleminded, doddering, toothless, liver-spotted, dim-sighted, hallucinating. Who decides these things? What is out there? Who are you?

The question of dying becomes a wise reminder. It cures us of our innocence of the future.