Sometimes the world we live in is a truly weird place.
Our world is not the same as Othello’s world. You can’t make flivvers without steel – and you can’t make tragedies without social instability. The world’s stable now. People are happy; they get what they want, and they never want what they can’t get.
One half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other.
On some other world, possibly it is different. Better. There are clear good and evil alternatives. Not these obscure admixtures, these blends, with no proper tool by which to untangle the components.
Not how the world is, is the mystical, but that it is.[Nicht wie die Welt ist, ist das Mystische, sondern dass sie ist.]
Maybe ever’body in the whole damn world is scared of each other.
It’s true, that we do not inherit the world from our parents; we borrow it from our children.
It wasn’t worth wasting your time trying to change the world; it was enough not to let the world change you.
It seems to me that if you or I must choose between two courses of thought or action, we should remember our dying and try so to live that our death brings no pleasure to the world.
It might be possible that the world itself is without meaning.
It is the stillest words which bring the storm. Thoughts that come with doves’ footsteps guide the world.
It is easy to forget how full the world is of people, full to bursting, and each of them imaginable and consistently misimagined.
