Hold the old holding hand. Hold and be held. Plod on and never recede. Slowly with never a pause plod on and never recede.

I gave up before birth.

Two in distressmake sorrow less.

I did not want to write, but I had to resign myself to it in the end.

The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new.

How can one better magnify the Almighty than by sniggering with him at his little jokes, particularly the poorer ones?

Until the day when, your endurance gone, in this world for you without arms, you catch up in yours the first mangy cur you meet, carry it for the time needed for it to love it and you it, then throw it away.