When I try to analyze my own cravings, motives, actions and so forth, I surrender to a sort of retrospective imagination which feeds the analytic faculty with boundless alternatives and which causes each visualized route to fork and re-fork without end in the maddeningly complex prospect of my past.

Some people, and I am one of them, hate happy ends. We feel cheated. Harm is the norm.

I shall be dumped where the weed decays, And the rest is rust and stardust

Measure me while I live - after it will be too late.

Life is just one small piece of light between two eternal darknesses.

Which arrow flies for ever? The arrow that has hit its mark.

Just like a man grieving because he has recently lost in his dreams some thing that he had never had in reality, or hoping that tomorrow he would dream that he found it again. That is how mathematics is created; it has its fatal flaw.