There is no substitute for the comfort supplied by the utterly taken-for-granted relationship.

Art is not cozy and it is not mocked. Art tells the only truth that ultimately matters. It is the light by which human things can be mended. And after art there is, let me assure you all, nothing.

Our actions are like ships which we may watch set out to sea, and not know when or with what cargo they will return to port.

Then I felt too that I might take this opportunity to tie up a few loose ends, only of course loose ends can never be properly tied, one is always producing new ones. Time, like the sea, unties all knots. Judgements on people are never final, they emerge from summings up which at once suggest the need of a reconsideration. Human arrangements are nothing but loose ends and hazy reckoning, whatever art may otherwise pretend in order to console us.

Moralistic is not moral. And as for truth - well, it's like brown - it's not in the spectrum. Truth is so generic.

Our destiny can be examined, but it cannot be justified or totally explained. We are simply here.

Oh the piercing sadness of life in the midst of its ordinariness!