It's clear, it's fresh, like a mint candy.
Where do the words go when we have said them?
After everything that's happened, how can the world still be so beautiful? Because it is.
We thought we had such problems. How were we to know we were happy?
When any civilization is dust and ashes," he said, "art is all that's left over. Images, words, music. Imaginative structures. Meaning—human meaning, that is—is defined by them. You have to admit that.
The newspaper journalists like to believe the worst; they can sell more papers that way, as one of them told me himself; for even upstanding and respectable people dearly love to read ill of others.