More are weakened than strengthened by their troubles.
Self-deception is nature; hypocrisy is art.
Art chooses its constraints.
No one could be the way I remember my father.
I seldom remember my father, but I sneeze and rub my nose the way he did. I also love my son with grief and anger, as he did.
Somehow the body keeps life going despite the ravaging negations of the mind.