We are all products of our time, vulnerable to history.
People bring to what they see and feel, the inner weather of their souls and complexion of their minds.
Love can never explain the loved one, my dear. It is the essence of wild unreason.
People never think about words, they only feel them.
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.
A family is a burial mound of its own doings and sayings.