I tried to write worse but it was no good; my generalizations came out as before, each more exquisite than the last. I grew discouraged.

I made a tentative conclusion. It seemed from all of this that uppermost among human joys is the negative one of restoration: not going to the stars, but learning that one may stay where one is.

Before the mind snaps, or the heart breaks, it gather itself like a clock about to strike. It might even be said one pulls himself together to disintegrate.

We pay for security with boredom, for adventure with bother.

Pain is the question mark turned like a fishhook in the human heart.

Time heals nothing — which should make us the better able to minister.

Everybody hates me because I'm so universally liked.