You grow up a bit damaged or broken then you have some success but you don’t know how to feel good about the work you’re doing or the life you’re leading.
Why the hell are we conditioned into the smooth strawberry-and-cream Mother-Goose-world, Alice-in-Wonderland fable, only to be broken on the wheel as we grow older and become aware of ourselves as individuals with a dull responsibility in life?
There are so many things some old man should tell one about while one is little; for when one has grown up, knowing them would be a matter of course.[Es gibt so viele Dinge, von denen ein alter Mann einem erzählen müßte, solange man klein ist; denn wenn man erwachsen ist, wäre es selbstverständlich, sie zu kennen.]
The strange thing about growing old is that the intimate identification with the here and now is slowly lost; one feels transposed into infinity, more or less alone, no longer in hope or fear, only observing.