hen we mourn those who die young — those who have been robbed of time — we weep for lost joys. We weep for opportunities and pleasures we ourselves have never known. We feel sure that somehow that young body would have known the yearning delight for which we searched in vain all our lives.

Our sanity depends essentially on a narrowness of vision--the ability to select the elements vital to survival, while ignoring the great truths.

Those who do not have imaginary conversations do not love.

The passion that transforms life, and art, did not seem to be mine.

Time, for a man who has never truly felt a second of it, it not a great sacrifice

Very odd, old age. Always knew it would happen, if I was lucky. I just didn't expect it so soon.

There is an eternal landscape, a geography of the soul; we search for its outline all our lives.