Experience is the cane of the blind.

Heaven has its business and earth has its business: those are two separate things. Heaven, that's the angels' pasture; they are happy; they don't have to fret about food and drink. And you can be sure that they have black angels to do the heavy work like laundering the clouds or sweeping the rain and cleaning the sun after a storm, while the white angels sing like nightingales all day long or blow in those little trumpets like they show in the pictures we see in church.

Misfortune is never invited. And it comes and sits at the table without permission and it eats, leaving nothing but bones.

At noon, you walk across a river. It is dry, with not this much water: it is just stones and pebbles. But it rains cats and dogs in the mountains, and towards afternoon, the water descends wildly and she ravages all in its path, the madwoman. That is how death comes. Without our expecting it, and we cannot do a thing against it, brothers.

Experience is the cane of the blind.

As they say, when a man begins to have bad luck, even clabber can break his head.

And at dawn, the drums still beat on the sleepless plain like an unstoppable heart.