Life is filigree work. What is written clearly is not worth much, it’s the transparency that counts.
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- Living, just by itself — what a dirge that is! Life is a classroom and Boredom’s the usher, there all the time to spy on you; whatever happens, you’ve got to look as if you were awfully busy all the time doing something that’s terribly exciting –or he’ll come along and nibble your brain.
- The whole business of your life overwhelms you when you live alone. One’s stupefied by it. To get rid of it you try to daub some of it off on to people who come to see you, and they hate that. To be alone trains one for death.
- One can’t relive one’s life. Forgiveness is not what’s difficult; one’s always too ready to forgive. And it does no good, that’s obvious.
- Never believe straight off in a man’s unhappiness. Ask him if he can still sleep. If the answer’s yes, all’s well. That is enough.
- This instinctive repulsion which tradespeople inspire in men of sensitive feeling is one of the very rare consolations for being so impoverished which are given to those of us who don’t sell anything to anybody.
- To hell with reality! I want to die in music, not in reason or in prose. People don’t deserve the restraint we show by not going into delirium in front of them. To hell with them!