Some lives are tragic, some ridiculous. Most are both at once.

The tragic sense of life: our heroic acceptance of the suffering of others.

Somewhere in the depths of solitude, beyond wilderness and freedom, lay the trap of madness.

For myself I hold no preferences among flowers, so long as they are wild, free, spontaneous. Bricks to all greenhouses! Black thumb and cutworm to the potted plant!

Love implies anger. The man who is angered by nothing cares about nothing.

I have been a lucky man. But someone has to be.

In the end, for all our differences and conflicts, most women and men share the same food, work, shelter, bed, life, joy, anguish, and fate. We need each other.