We have just enough religion to make us hate, but not enough to make us love.
How vulgar, this hankering after immortality, how vain, how false. Composers are merely scribblers of cave paintings. One writes music because winter is eternal and because, if one didn’t, the wolves and blizzards would be at one’s throat all the sooner.
Integrity is a bugger, it really is. Lying can get you into difficulties, but to really wind up in the crappers try telling nothing but the truth.
Soul is a verb.
Creation unfolds, around us, despite us and through us, at the speed of days and nights, and we like to call it “love.
If only,’ Shiroyama dreams, ’human beings were not masks behind masks behind masks. If only this world was a clean board of lines and intersections. If only time was a sequence of considered moves and not a chaos of slippages and blunders.
Probably” is a word with an emergency ejector seat.
Eva. Every day I’ve climbed up the belfry chanting a lucky chant at one syllable per beat, “To-day-to-day-let-her-be-here-to-day-to-day.
I wonder if you encountered this dictum first spoken by a twentieth-century statesman: “An abyss cannot be crossed in two steps.
Time is the speed at which the past decays.