Our past is a novel that we are constantly revising.
The porcelain rose is not as pretty as the one that decays.
Creating doesn’t make us unhappy, unhappiness makes us creative. To create is to live, and in living, we want only to creat more, to set our foundations depper and reach higher toward the sky. If sadness is what makes us creative, then sadness is nothing else but life.
American seekers of happiness are in danger of deluding themselves into believing that only one part of the world exists, the part that gladdens their egos.