The beginning is the word and the end is silence. And in between are all the stories.

(although anyone with half a brain must surely be mired in existential gloom all the time)

If people believed in eternal damnation they might not be seizing the day quite so much.

The past is what you take with you.

It was a long time ago now. And it was yesterday.

She was a terrible mother, there was no doubt about it, but she didn't even have the strength to feel guilty.

Sometimes I would like to cry. I close my eyes. Why weren't we designed so that we can close our ears as well? (Perhaps because we would never open them.) Is there some way that I could accelerate my evolution and develop earlids?