I, of whom I know nothing, I know my eyes are open, because of the tears that pour from them unceasingly.
We have time to grow old. The air is full of our cries. But habit is a great deadener.
I have my faults, but changing my tune is not one of them.
Poets are the sense, philosophers the intelligence of humanity.
That penny farthing hell you call your mind
I hope I am not too old to take it up seriously, nor too stupid about machines to qualify as a commercial pilot. I do not feel like spending the rest of my life writing books that no one will read. It is not as though I wanted to write them.