Without anxiety life would have very little savor.
Poetry finds its perilous equilibrium somewhere between music and speech.
Pain can make a whole winter bright, like fever, force us to live deep and hard.
I can understand people simply fleeing the mountainous effort Christmas has become... but there are always a few saving graces and finally they make up for all the bother and distress.
gardening is a madness, a folly that does not go away with age. Quite the contrary.
For inside all the weakness of old age, the spirit, God knows, is as mercurial as it ever was.