Thought enables us to see Fate coming.
Travelling carries me to the surface, away from the deeps of home-thoughts.
Thought maps existence; fantasy colors it.
Life is always rich, thought only occasionally so.
No matter how close thought sticks to the actual, it follows its own rules.
Mathematics: silent harmonies. Music: sounding numbers.
The harp is an insipid instrument – no good for dancing, feasting, or marching, only for sitting primly in a parlor or on a cloud.
To avoid discord, never put two wise people in the same room.
As an elder I mistrust the wisdom of age.
Wisdom has lost repute because it so often applies to a state of affairs that no longer exists.
Wisdom knows when to return death’s embrace.
My mentors grow old and foolish. I am afraid.
The interest in Wisdom is fading. Soon there will not be enough left to support the aphorism, even though it tries to amuse by half-mocking the Wisdom it propounds.
I like the old wisdom – puns, riddles, spells, proverbs.
Intelligence complicates. Wisdom simplifies.
At sixty, I would like to give my future back its vistas of uncertainty.
With age, comfort becomes more seductive than beauty.
The vices of youth now exceed my powers, but not my fancy.
With age, the mind grows slower and more wily.
The children of childish parents age quickly.