Wait and wait. Most people's lives are spent waiting.

The writer, an old man with a white moustache, had some difficulty getting into bed.

In youth there are always two forces fighting in people. The warm unthinking little animal struggles against the thing that reflects and remembers

It was a cold day but the sun was out and the trees were like great bonfires against gray distant fields and hills.

You won’t arrive. It is an endless search.

It may be life is only worthwhile at moments. Perhaps that is all we ought to expect.

Friends you have, people you love, die and are born again.