It was the first rent in the holy image of my father, it was the first fissure in the columns that had upheld my childhood, which every individual must destroy before he can become himself.

Did all this make sense?

I have begun to listen to the teachings my blood whispers to me.

Happiness is a how; not a what. A talent, not an object.

One cannot apologize for something fundamental, and a child feels and knows this as well and as deeply as any sage.

. . . gentleness is stronger than severity, water is stronger than rock, love is stronger than force.

So you can't dance? Not at all? Not even one step? How can you say that you've taken any trouble to live when you won't even dance?