Writing is a refuge from unhappiness, but has its own sorrows.

My intentions go one way, my desires another. Thus I feel both self-indulgent and deprived.

We take refuge in illness and then are trapped there.

Poor but happy is not a phrase invented by a poor person.

Simplicity is a strict taskmaster.

Alcohol postpones anxiety, then multiplies it.

Middle age went by while I was mourning for my lost youth.