Our tears fatten upon our memories of joy.
We do survive every moment, after all, except the last one.
Without rain, there would be no life.
The heart prefers to move against the grain of circumstance; perversity is the souls very life.
The golf swing is like a suitcase into which we are trying to pack one too many things.
The literary scene is a kind of Medusaโs raft, small and sinking, and oneโs instinct when a newcomer tries to clamber aboard is to step on his fingers.