It is said that in life we must play with the cards we are dealt, but too often I have kept those cards too close to my chest.

How often have I tried just hard enough so that I can then say to myself that I tried with the real purpose of assuaging my guilt about something I did not wish to succeed in the first place?

One of the small consolations of old age, if you are lucky, can be at least a partial recovery of innocence.

Everything I do or say will be forgotten in a few short years. Yet how amazing and wonderful it is that somehow I still care, just simply care about whatever I do, and will probably do so until my dying moment.

To insist that I am not forgiven is a kind of inverse arrogance.

I feel that the only true security I have is my capacity, however limited, to love.

I think that an act of love is immortal; once tendered, it can never really be taken back.