She seems to have had the ability to stand firmly on the rock of her past while living completely and unregretfully in the present.

To be born is to start the journey towards death.

But there is something about Time. The sun rises and sets. The stars swing slowly across the sky and fade. Clouds fill with rain and snow, empty themselves, and fill again. The moon is born, and dies, and is reborn. Around millions of clocks swing hour hands, and minute hands, and second hands. Around goes the continual circle of the notes of the scale. Around goes the circle of night and day, the circle of weeks forever revolving, and of months, and of years.

Love can't be pinned down by a definition, and it certainly can't be proved, any more than anything else important in life can be proved.

And there's no getting around the fact that all life lives at the expense of another life.

With our human limitations we're not always able to understand the explanations.

If you want to write, you need to keep an honest, unpublishable journal that nobody reads, nobody but you. Where you just put down what you think about life, what you think about things, what you think is fair and what you think is unfair.