There are worries that seem to me sustained by the love of worry. For example, that people are reading from screens, or listening to recorded books. Why scold the impulse to enjoy language and narrative in whatever form it takes?

You never know when you might be seeing someone for the last time.

And there is no living creature, though the whims of eons had put its eyes on boggling stalks and clamped it in a carapace, diminished it to a pinpoint and given it a taste for mud and stuck it down a well or hid it under a stone, but that creature will live on if it can.

The locus of the human mystery is perception of this world. From it proceeds every thought, every art.

We inhabit, we are part of, a reality for which explanation is much too poor and small.

I would advise you against defensiveness on priciple. it precludes the best eventualities along with the worst. At the most basic level it expresses a lack of faith.

It's not a man's working hours that is important, it is how he spends his leisure time.