Love can never explain the loved one, my dear. It is the essence of wild unreason.
With some people there is such a thing as the habit of betrayal.
A family is a burial mound of its own doings and sayings.
All humans are frightened of their own solitude. But only in solitude can we learn to know ourselves, learn to handle our own eternal aloneness.
Strange are the ways of history, where no single thing abides, but all things flow into each other, fragment to fragment clinging.
Sadness is so ungrateful.