Poverty is a stubborn thing: you seldom escape it with one bound.
How has anyone ever understood anyone, except through love, which is wordless?
If you do nothing unexpected, nothing unexpected happens.
If infinity is as they describe it, all things are not just possible but in the end certain.
Much sheer effort goes into avoiding the truth; left to itself, it sweeps in like the tide.
The peculiar need to write is increased, it seems, rather than allayed with practice.