It seemed to me that this world has a serious shortage of both logic and kindness.
I wonder what ants do on rainy days?
Like flowers scattered in a storm, a man's life is a long farewell.
A fortunate author can write maybe twelve novels in his lifetime.
Let the world move along as it pleased. If it had any business with him, it would be sure to tell him.
Now for a good twelve-hour sleep, I told myself. Twelve solid hours. Let birds sing, let people go to work. Somewhere out there, a volcano might blow, Israeli commandos might decimate a Palestinian village. I couldn't stop it. I was going to sleep.