From now on it is not dying we must fear, but living.
Does love always form, like a pearl, around the hardened bits of life?
When one contemplated Portia, when one contemplated Sharon, when one contemplated one’s own apparently pointless, utterly trivial being, the questions hung all around one, as urgent as knives at the throat. But the instant one...
It’s not always easy to distinguish between existentialism and a bad mood.