Simple is never that simple.

Life is just a short period of time in which you are alive.

You put too much stock in human intelligence, it doesn't annihilate human nature.

The tragedy of the man not set up for tragedy—that is every man's tragedy.

A man who's discontents were barely known to himself, awakening in middle age to the horror of self-reflection.

He was trying hard to continue to exist as himself despite the unlikeliness of everything.

The grief of widowhood, of losing a husband and only to be harassed by his brothers, remained pressed on her.

Life is very simple, but to make ourselves feel intelligent, we insist on making it complex.

See how he cowers and sneaks, how vaguely all the day he fears, not being immortal nor divine, but the slave and prisoner of his own opinion of himself, a fame won by his own deeds.

The end of a melody is not its goal: but nonetheless, had the melody not reached its end it would not have reached its goal either. A parable.

Some books are to be tasted others to be swallowed and some few to be chewed and digested.

But whoever heard of enchanted bacon anyway?

The absurd vanity of metaphysicians who like to imagine that they create the world by thinking about it.

You know me. Any excuse to put on a dress.

Failure makes excuses. Success just keeps swinging the bat.

Being a parent, I'm acutely aware of how hard it is to get good childcare.