History is the lies of the victors.

Grief seems at first to destroy not just all patterns, but also to destroy a belief that a pattern exists.

What happiness is there in just the memory of happiness?

He had a better mind and a more rigorous temperament than me; he thought logically, and then acted on the conclusion of logical thought. Whereas most of us, I suspect, do the opposite: we make an instinctive decision, then build up an infrastructure of reasoning to justify it. And call the result common sense.

The land of embarrassment and breakfast.

Because love is the meeting point of truth and magic. Truth, as in photography; magic, as in ballooning.

When you are in your twenties, even if you're confused and uncertain about your aims and purposes, you have a strong sense of what life itself is, and of what you in life are, and might become. Later.. later there is more uncertainty, more overlapping, more backtracking, more false memories. Back then, you can remember your short life in its entirety. Later, the memory becomes a thing of shreds and patches.