Everything takes me longer than I expect. It's the sad truth about life

Death is the mother of beauty,” said Henry. “And what is beauty?” “Terror.

Character, to me, is the life's blood of fiction

Love doesn't conquer everything. And whoever thinks it does is a fool.

Every new event—everything I did for the rest of my life—would only separate us more and more: days she was no longer a part of, an ever-growing distance between us. Every single day for the rest of my life, she would only be further away.

I hope we're all ready to leave the phenomenal world, and enter into the sublime?

That life - whatever else it is - is short. That fate is cruel but maybe not random. That Nature (meaning Death) always wins but that doesn’t mean we have to bow and grovel to it. That maybe even if we’re not always so glad to be here, it’s our task to immerse ourselves anyway: wade straight through it, right through the cesspool, while keeping eyes and hearts open. And in the midst of our dying, as we rise from the organic and sink back ignominiously into the organic, it is a glory and a privilege to love what Death doesn’t touch.