That question is too good to spoil with an answer.

Perhaps, he thought, true pure love, like all flowers, flourished best with its roots in muck and mud. Perhaps that was a law of life that held everything together.

All cows were like other cows, all tigers like all other tigers - What on earth happened to human beings?

If you find life absurd, shouldn’t you find death precisely meaningful?

In a world full of war, famine, oppression, deceit, monotony, what—apart from the eternal innocence of animals—offers an image of hope? A mother with a newborn child in her arms? The child may end up as a murderer or a murder victim, so that the hopeful image is a prefiguration of a pietà: a mother with her newly dead child on her lap.

That question is too good to spoil with an answer.

A man who has never been hungry may possess a more refined palate, but he has no idea what it means to eat.