Every mundanity of life grows infinitely more precious in the face of impending death.
But my whole life has been a matter of fighting for one simple hour to do what I want to do. There was always something getting in the way of my getting to myself.
Before I can live with other folks I’ve got to live with myself.
And this our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.
All voices, all goals, all yearnings, all suffering, all pleasure, all that was good and evil, all of this together was the world. All of it together was the flow of events, was the music of life.
All the variety, all the charm, all the beauty of life is made up of light and shadow.[Все разнообразие, вся прелесть, вся красота жизни слагается из тени и света.]
Youth offers the promise of happiness, but life offers the realities of grief.
Your life is not your own. Keep your hands off it.
You should know I disagree with a lot of traditional advice. For instance, they say the best revenge is living well. I say it’s acid in the face—who will love them now?
You say your life is your own. But can you dare to ignore the chance that you are taking part in a gigantic drama under the orders of a divine Producer? Your cue may not come till the end of the play–it may be totally unimportant, a mere walking-on part, but upon it may hang the issues of the play if you do not give the cue to another player. The whole edifice may crumple. You as you, may not matter to anyone in the world, but you as a person in a particular place may matter unimaginably.
You have to die a few times before you can really live.
You had to risk your life to get love. You had to get right to the edge of death to ever be saved.
