There's never been a lack of men willing to die bravely. The trouble is to find a few able to live sensibly.
Oh, time betrays us. Time is the great enemy.
Youth knows no remedy for grief but death.
I would, if I could, always feed to music. The singularly graceless action of thus filling one's body with roots and dead animals and powdered grain is given some significance then. One can perform as a ritual what one is shamed to do as a utilitarian action.
Remorse ... is one of the many afflictions for which time finds a cure.
we are so little, so ignorant, so feeble an infant race crawling on a planet between immensities we haven't even begun to understand, that really we have no grounds for either congratulation or despair.