People say that you know the Atman, a Spirit which is pure and which is beyond old age and death, and beyond hunger and thirst and sorrow, a Spirit whose desires are Truth and whose thoughts are Truth; and that you say that this Spirit must be found and known, because when he is found all the worlds are found and all desires are obtained.

Even as the Atman, the self, our souul, is dressed in clothes of beauty when the body is, and is covered with ornaments when the body is, when the body is blind the self is blind, and when the body is lam the self is lam, and when the body dies the self dies. I cannot find any joy in this doctrine.

Even if in dreams when the body is blind the Atman is not blind, or when the body is lame the Atman is not lame, and indeed does not suffer the limitations of the body, so that when the body is killed the self is not killed; yet in dreams the self may seem to be killed and suffer, and to feel much pain and weep. I cannot find any joy in this doctrine.

If a man is in deep sleep without dreams he cannot even say "I am " and he cannot know anything. He in truth falls into nothingness. I cannot find any joy in this doctrine.

It is true that the body is mortal, that it is under the power of death; but it is also the dwelling of Atman, the Spirit of immortal life. The body, the house of the Spirit, is under the power of pleasure and pain; and if a man is ruled by his body then this man can never be free. But when a man is in the joy of the Spirit, in the Spirit which is ever free, then this man is free from all bondage, the bondage of pleasure and pain.

Know that when the eye looks into space it is the Spirit of man that sees: the eye is only the organ of sight. When one says "I feel this perfum," it is the Spirit that feels: he uses the organ of smell. When one says "I am speaking," it is the Spirit that speaks: the voice is the organ of speech. When one says "I am hearing," it is the Spirit that hears: the ear is the organ of hearing. And when one says "I think," it is the Spirit that thinks: the mind is the organ of thought. It is because of the light of the Spirit that the human mind can see, and can think, and enjoy this world.

There lived once a boy, Svetaketu Aruneya by name. One day his father spoke to him in this way: "Svetaketu, go an dbecome a student of sacred wisdom. There is no one in our family who has not studied the holy Vedas and who might only be given the name of Brahman by courtesy."

The boy left at the age of twelve and, having learnt the Vedas, he returned home at the age of twenty-four, very proud of his learning and having a great opinion of himself.

His father, observing this, said to him: "Svetaketu, my boy, you seem to have a great opinion of yourself, you think you are learned, and you rae proud. Have you asked for that knowledge whereby what is not heard is heard, what is not thought is thought, and what is not known is known?"

"What is that knowledge, father?" asked Svetaketu.

"Just as by knowing a lump of clay, my son, all that is clay can be known, since any differences are only words and the reality is clay;

Just as by knowing a piece of gold all that is gold can be known, since any differences are only words and the reality is only gold;

And just as by knowing a piece of iron all that is iron is known, since any differences are only words and the reality is only iron."

Svetaketu said, "Certainly my honoured masters knew not this themselves. If they had known, why would they not have told me? Explain this to me, father."

"So be it, my child."

There are only three things to be done with a woman. You can love her, suffer for her, or turn her into literature.

I want them to live again to the point where pain becomes art....

These are the moments which possess the writer, not the lover, and which live on perpetually.

This intimacy should go no further, for we have already exhausted all its possibilities in our respective imaginations: and what we shall end by discovering, behind the darkly woven colours of sensuality, will be a friendship so profound that we shall become bondmen forever. It was, if you like, the flirtation of minds permaturely exhausted by experience which seemed so much more dangerous than a love founded in sexual attraction.

The loved object is simply one that has shared an experience at the same moment of time, narcissistically; and the desire to be near the beloved object is at first not due to the idea of possessing it, but simply to let the two experiences compare themselves, like reflections in different mirros. All this may precede the first look, kiss, or touch; precede ambition, pride or envy; preced the first declarations which mark the turning point--for from here love degenerates into habit, possession, and back to loneliness.

I hunt everywhere for a life that is worth living. Perhaps if I could die or go mad it would provide a focus for all the feelings I have which find no proper outlet....  What I lack of heart I make up in soul.

Her world lacked a dimension, and love had become turned inwards into a kind of idolatry.

Bursting into those terrible hoarse sobs which I so often heard that even now in memory the thought of them (their richness, their melodious density) hurts me, she flung herself down on her own bed to lie, limbs loose and flaccid, played upon by the currents of her hysteria like jets from a hose.

Real people can only exist in the imagination of an artist strong enough to contain them and give them form. Life, the raw material, is only lived in potentia until the artist deploys it in his work.

She simply and magnificently is; we have to put up with her, like original sin.

Balthazar says that the natural traitors--like you and I--are really Caballi. He says we are dead and live this life as a sort of limbo. Yet the living can't do without us. We infect them with a desire to experience more, to grow.

I felt like answering himin the words of the dying Amr:"I feel as if heaven lay close upon the earth and I between them both, breathing through the eye of a needle."

We are all hunting for rational reasons for believing in the absurd.

Of all of us he is the most happy in a way because he has no preconceived idea of what he wants in return for his love. And to love in such an unpremediated way is something that most peple have to re-learn after fifty. Children have it. So has he.

Perhaps there is an advantage in being born in a city like Monte Carlo, without roots, for one accepts more easily what comes. The rootless have experienced, like all the others, the temptation of sharing the security of a religious creed or a political faith, and for some reason we have turned the temptation down. We are the faithless; we admire the dedicated, the Doctor Magiots and the Mr Smiths for their courage and their integrity, for their fidelity to a cause, but through timidity, or through lack of sufficient zest, we find ourselves the only ones truly committed--committed to the whole world of evil and of good, to the wise and to the foolish, to the indifferent and to the mistaken. We have chosen nothing except to go on living, 'rolled round on Earth's diurnal course, With rocks and stones and trees.'

[The priest] said, 'The Church is in the world, it is part of the suffering in the world, and though Christ condemned the disciple who struck off the ear of the high priest's servant, our hearts go out in sympathy to all who are moved to violence by the suffering of others. The Church condemns violence, but it condemns indifference more harshly. Violence can be the expression of love, indifference never. One is an imperfection of charity, the other the perfection of egoism. In the days of fear, doubt and confusion, the simplicity and loyalty of one apostle advocated a political solution. He was wrong, but I would rather be wrong with St Thomas than right with the cold and the craven.  Let us go up to Jerusalem and die with him.'

Doctor Magiot's letter: 'I have grown to dislike the word "Marxist". It is used so often to describe only a particular economic plan. I believe of course in that economic plan--in certain cases and in certain times. But communism is more than Marxism, just as Catholicism is more than the Roman Curia. There is a mystique as well as a politique. We are humanists, you and I. Catholics and Communists have committed great crimes, but at least they have not stood aside, like an established society, and been indifferent. I would rather have blood on my hands than water like Pilate.... I implore you, if you have abandoned one faith, do not abandon all faith. There is always an alternative to the faith we lose. Or is it the same faith under another mask?'

I remember Martha saying, 'You are a pretre manqué.' I have left involvement behind me, I was certain, in the College of the Visitation: I had dropped it like the roulette-token in the offertory. I had felt myself not merely incapable of love--many are incapable of that, but even of guilt. There were no heights and no abysses in my world--I saw myself on a great plain, walking and walking on the interminable flats. Once I might have taken a different direction, but it was too late now. When I was a boy the fathers of the Visitation had told me that one test of a belief was this: that a man was ready to die for it.

12/3/04

The Pyramids. You have never been to Egypt, have you? I was stationed there as a young soldier and, ye Gods, those Pyramids! It is impossible to convey in words the crushing sense of awe with which they overwhelm everyone who sees them. One first hears about them at home, as a child, and asks, "What are the Pyramids?" and the answer is, "Huge stone tombs in Egypt, triangular in shape, without any ornaments on them: just faced with white stucco." That doesn't sound very interesting or impressive. The mind makes "huge" no huger than some very big buildings with which one happens to be familiar with--say the Temple of Augustus yonder or the Julian Basilica. And then again, visiting Egypt, one sees them at a great distance across the desert, little white marks like tents, and say, "Why, surely that's nothing to make a fuss about!" But Heavens, to stand beneath them a few hours later and look up! Caesar, I tell you, they are incredibliy and impossibly huge. It makes one feel physically sick to think of them as having been built by human hands. One's first sight of the Alps was nothing by comparison. So white, smooth, pitilessly immortal. Such a terrific monument of human aspiration...  Its emptiness makes it all the more majestic.

Every book, every volume has a soul.  The soul of the person who wrote it and of those who read it and lived and dreamd with it.  Every time a book changes hands, every time someone runs his eyes down its pages, its spirit grows and strenghtens.

Books are mirrors: you only see in them what you already have inside you.

The art of reading is slowly dying; it's an intimate ritual; a book is a mirror that offers us only what we already carry inside us; when we read, we do it with all our heart and mind; and great readers are becoming more scarce by the day.

I looked at the group of human remains that languished in the corner and smiled at them.  It occurred to me that their very presence was testimony to the moral emptiness of the universe and the mechanical brutality with which it destroys the parts it no longer needs.

Fools talk, cowards are silent, wise men listen.

Sometimes we think people are like lottery tickets, that they're there to make our most absurd dreams come true.

Conincidences are the scars of fate.  There are no conincidences.  We are puppets of our subconscious desires.

In my opinion, I am often rich as Craesus, not in money, but (though it doesn't happen every day) rich, because I have found in my work something to which I can devote myself heart and soul, and which gives inspiration and significance to life.

Of course my moods vary, but there is an average of serenity.  I have a sure faith in art, a sure confidence that it is a powerful stream, which bears a man to harbour, though he himself must do his bit too; and at all events I think it such a great blessing, when a man has found his work, that I cannot count myself among the unfortunate.  I mean, I may be in certain relatively great difficulties, and there may be gloomy days in my life, but I shouldn't want to be counted among the unfortunate nor would it be correct.

You write in your letter something which I sometimes feel also: "Sometimes I do not know how I shall put through."

Look here, I often feel the same in more than one respect, not only in financial things, but in art itself, and in life in general.  But do you think that something exceptional?  Don't you think every man with a little pluck and energy has those moments?

Moments of melancholy, of distress, of anguish, I think we all have them, more or less, and it is a condition of every conscious human life.  It seems that some people have no self-consciousness.  But those who have it, they may sometimes be in distress, but for all that they are not unhappy, nor is it something exceptional that happens to them.

And sometimes there comes relief, sometimes there comes new inner energy, and one rises up from it, till at last, some day, one perhaps doesn't rise up any more, que soit, but that is nothing extraordinary, and I repeat, such is the common human fate, in my opinion.

You lose no time, of course, in drawing parallel between Amsterdam and Venice, and it is well worth drawing, as an illustration of the uses to which the same materials may be put by different minds.  Sky and sea in both cases, with architecture between: winding sea-channels washing the feet of goodly houses erected with the profits of trade.  And yet the Dutch city is a complete reversal of the Italian.  The outward expression on one side is perfect poetry, and on the other is perfect prose: and the marvel is the way in which thrifty Amsterdam imparts the prosaic turn to things which in Venice seem the perfect essence of poetry.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Als das Kind Kind war,
ging es mit hängenden Armen,
wollte der Bach sei ein Fluß,
der Fluß sei ein Strom,
und diese Pfütze das Meer.

Als das Kind Kind war,
wußte es nicht, daß es Kind war,
alles war ihm beseelt,
und alle Seelen waren eins.

Als das Kind Kind war,
hatte es von nichts eine Meinung,
hatte keine Gewohnheit,
saß oft im Schneidersitz,
lief aus dem Stand,
hatte einen Wirbel im Haar
und machte kein Gesicht beim fotografieren.

Als das Kind Kind war,
war es die Zeit der folgenden Fragen:
Warum bin ich ich und warum nicht du?
Warum bin ich hier und warum nicht dort?
Wann begann die Zeit und wo endet der Raum?
Ist das Leben unter der Sonne nicht bloß ein Traum?
Ist was ich sehe und höre und rieche
nicht bloß der Schein einer Welt vor der Welt?
Gibt es tatsächlich das Böse und Leute,
die wirklich die Bösen sind?
Wie kann es sein, daß ich, der ich bin,
bevor ich wurde, nicht war,
und daß einmal ich, der ich bin,
nicht mehr der ich bin, sein werde?

Als das Kind Kind war,
würgte es am Spinat, an den Erbsen, am Milchreis,
und am gedünsteten Blumenkohl.
und ißt jetzt das alles und nicht nur zur Not.

Als das Kind Kind war,
erwachte es einmal in einem fremden Bett
und jetzt immer wieder,
erschienen ihm viele Menschen schön
und jetzt nur noch im Glücksfall,
stellte es sich klar ein Paradies vor
und kann es jetzt höchstens ahnen,
konnte es sich Nichts nicht denken
und schaudert heute davor.

Als das Kind Kind war,
spielte es mit Begeisterung
und jetzt, so ganz bei der Sache wie damals, nur noch,
wenn diese Sache seine Arbeit ist.

Als das Kind Kind war,
genügten ihm als Nahrung Apfel, Brot,
und so ist es immer noch.

Als das Kind Kind war,
fielen ihm die Beeren wie nur Beeren in die Hand
und jetzt immer noch,
machten ihm die frischen Walnüsse eine rauhe Zunge
und jetzt immer noch,
hatte es auf jedem Berg
die Sehnsucht nach dem immer höheren Berg,
und in jeden Stadt
die Sehnsucht nach der noch größeren Stadt,
und das ist immer noch so,
griff im Wipfel eines Baums nach dem Kirschen in einemHochgefühl
wie auch heute noch,
eine Scheu vor jedem Fremden
und hat sie immer noch,
wartete es auf den ersten Schnee,
und wartet so immer noch.

Als das Kind Kind war,
warf es einen Stock als Lanze gegen den Baum,
und sie zittert da heute noch.

Then the mountains loomed ahead, all green. After this climb we would be on the great central plateau again and ready to roll ahead to Mexico City. In no time at all we soared to an elevation of five thousand feet among misty passes that overlooked steaming yellow rivers a mile below. It was the great River Moctezuma. The Indians along the road began to be extremely weird. They were a nation in themselves, mountain Indians, shut off from everything else but the Pan-American Highway. They were short and squat and dark, with bad teeth; they carried immense loads on their backs. Across enormous vegetated ravines we saw patchworks of agriculture on steep slopes. They walked up and down those slopes and worked on the crops. Dean drove the car five miles an hour to see. “Whooee, this I never thought existed!” High on the highest peak, as great as any Rocky Mountain peak, we saw bananas growing. Dean got out of the car to point, to stand around rubbing his belly. We were on a ledge where a little thatched hut suspended itself over the precipice of the world. The sun created golden hazes that obscured the Moctezuma, now more than a mile below.

In the yard in front of the hut a little three-year-old Indian girl stood with her finger in her mouth, watching us with big brown eyes. “She’s probably never seen anybody parked here before in her entire life!” breathed Dean. “Hel-lo, little girl. How are you? Do you like us?” The little girl looked away bashfully and pouted. We began to talk and she again examined us with finger in mouth. “Gee, I wish there was something I could give her! Think of it, being born and living on this ledge—this ledge representing all you know of life. Her father is probably groping down the ravine with a rope and getting his pineapples out of a cave and backing wood at an eighty-degree angle with all the bottom below. She’ll never, never leave here and know anything about the outside world. It’s a nation. Think of the wild chief they must have! They probably, off the road, over that bluff, miles back, must be even wilder and stranger, yeah, because the Pan-American Highway partially civilizes this nation on this road. Notice the beads of sweat on her brow,” Dean pointed out with a grimace of pain. “It’s not the kind of sweat we have, it’s oily and it’s always there because it’s always hot the year round and she knows nothing of non-sweat, she was born with sweat and dies with sweat.” The sweat on her little brow was heavy, sluggish; it didn’t run; it just stood there and gleamed like a fine olive oil. “What that must do to their souls! How different they must be in their private concerns and evaluations and wishes!” Dean drove on with his mouth hanging in awe, ten miles an hour, desirous to see every possible human being on the road. We climbed and climbed.

As we climbed, the air grew cooler and the Indian girls on the road wore shawls over their heads and shoulders. They hailed us desperately; we stopped to see. They wanted to sell us little pieces of rock crystal. Their great brown, innocent eyes looked into ours with such soulful intensity that not one of us had the slightest sexual thought about them; moreover they were very young, some of them eleven and looking almost thirty. “Look at those eyes!” breathed Dean. They were like the eyes of the Virgin Mother when she was a child. We saw in them the tender and forgiving gaze of Jesus. And they stared unflinching into ours. We rubbed our nervous blue eyes and looked again. Still they penetrated us with sorrowful and hypnotic gleam. When they talked they suddenly became frantic and almost silly. In their silence they were themselves. “They’ve only recently learned to sell these crystals, since the highway was built about ten years back—up until that time this entire nation must have been silent!”

The girls yammered around the car. One particularly soulful child gripped at Dean’s sweaty arm. She yammered in Indian. “Ah yes, ah yes, dear one,” said Dean tenderly and almost sadly. He got out of the car and went fishing around in the battered trunk in the back—the same old tortured American trunk—and pulled out a wristwatch. He showed it to the child. She whimpered with glee. The others crowded around with amazement. Then Dean poked in the little girl’s hand for “the sweetest and purest and smallest crystal she has personally picked from the mountain for me.” He found one no bigger than a berry. And he handed her the wristwatch dangling. Their mouths rounded like the mouths of chorister children. The lucky little girl thanked him. He stood among them with his ragged face to the sky, looking for the next and highest and final pass, and seemed like the Prophet that had come to them. He got back in the car. They hated to see us go. For the longest time, as we mounted a straight pass, they waved and ran after us. We made a turn and never saw them again, and they were still running after us. “Ah, this breaks my heart!” cried Dean, punching his chest. “How far do they carry out these loyalties and wonders! What’s going to happen to them? Would they try to follow the car all the way to Mexico City if we drove slow enough?”

“Yes,” I said, for I knew.

We came into the dizzying heights of the Sierra Madre Oriental. The banana tree gleamed golden in the haze. Great fogs yawned beyond stone walls along the precipice. Below, the Moctezuma was a thin golden thread in a green jungle mat. Strange crossroad towns on top of the world rolled by, with shawled Indians watching us from under hatbrims and rebozos. Life was dense, dark, ancient. They watched Dean, serious and insane at his raving wheel, with eyes of hawks. All had their hands outstretched. They had come down from the back mountains and higher places to hold forth their hands for something they thought civilization could offer, and they never dreamed the sadness and the poor broken delusion of it. They didn’t know that a bomb had come that could crack all our bridges and roads and reduce them to jumbles, and we would be as poor as they someday, and stretching out our hands in the same, same way. Our broken Ford, old thirties upgoing American Ford, rattled through them and vanished in dust.

We had reached the approaches of the last plateau. Now the sun was golden, the air keen blue, and the desert with its occasional rivers a riot of sandy, hot space and sudden Biblical tree shade. Now Dean was sleeping and Stan driving. The shepherds appeared, dressed as in first times, in long flowing robes, the women carrying golden bundles of flax, the men staves. Under great trees on the shimmering desert the shepherds sat and convened, and the sheep moiled in the sun and raised dust beyond. “Man, man,” I yelled to Dean, “wake up and see the shepherds, wake up and see the golden world that Jesus came from, with your own eyes you can tell!”

He shot his head up from the seat, saw one glimpse of it all in the fading red sun, and dropped back to sleep. When he woke up he described it to me in detail and said, “Yes, man, I’m glad you told me to look. Oh, Lord, what shall I do? Where will I go?” He rubbed his belly, he looked to heaven with red eyes, he almost wept.

The end of our journey impended. Great fields stretched on both sides of us; a noble wind blew across the occasional immense tree groves and over old missions turning salmon pink in the late sun. The clouds were close and huge and rose. “Mexico City by dusk!” We’d made it, a total of nineteen hundred miles from the afternoon yards of Denver to these vast and Biblical areas of the world, and now we were about to reach the end of the road.

12/19/2003

On Sundays she went to church elaborated.

… expending great effort on the production of a letter to Joe…

… in an obvious state of doubt

3/3/2003

Next to the hunger to experience a thing, men have perhaps no stronger hunger than to forget.

No, it is because the reality that I once experienced, together with my comrades, exists no longer, and although its memories are the most precious and vivid ones that I possess, they seem so far away, they are composed of such a different kind of fabric, that it seems as if they originated on other stars in other millennia, or as if they were hallucinations.

3/3/2003

Story of Vincent van Gogh

Many times in your life you may think you are failing, but ultimately you will express yourself and that expression will justify your life.

There was no God. Just as simply as that, there was no God. There was only chaos; miserable, suffering, cruel, tortuous, blind, endless chaos.

If hunger and pain can kill a man, then he's not worth saving. The only artists who belong on this earth are the men whom neither God nor the devil can kill until they'.ve said everything they want to say. ... Pain is the only infinite thing in this world.

Vincent went back to work with a new peace in his heart. It was good to have a hearth of one's own, to feel the bustle and organization of a family about one. Living with Christine gave him courage and energy to go on with his work.

The more he painted, the more other activities lost their interest. The more he got rid of them the quicker his eye grasped the picturesque qualities of life. Art demanded persistent work, work in spite of everything, and a continuous observation.

The blank canvas stares at me like an idiot, but I know that it is afraid of the passionate painter who dares, who once and for all has broken the spell of that "you cannot." Life itself turns towards a man an infinitely vacant, discouraging, hopelessly blank side on which nothing is written, no more than on this blank canvas. But the man of faith and energy is not frightened by that blankness; he steps in, he acts, he builds up, he creates, and in the end the canvas is no longer blank but covered with the rich pattern of life.

One man can do very little against a whole civilization.

It's rather difficult to say just where a study leaves off and a picture begins. Let us paint as much as we can, and be ourselves with all our faults and qualities.

One starts with a hopeless struggle to follow nature, and everything goes wrong; one ends by calmly creating from one's palette, and nature agrees with it and follows.

I was one lone man, battling the whole world.

Of personal life, he had none. He was just a mechanism, a blinding painting automation that had food, liquid, and paint poured into it each morning, and by nightfall turned out a finished canvas. ... The desire to succeed had left Vincent. He worked because he had to, because it kept him from suffering too much mentally, because it distracted his mind. He could do without a wife, a home, and children; he could do without love and friendship and health; he could do without security, comfort, and food; he could even do without God. But he could not do without something which was greater than himself, which was his life--the power and ability to create.

You must boldly exaggerate the effects, either in harmony or discord, which colours produce. ... The artist has the liberty to exaggerate, to create in his novel a world more beautiful, more simple, more consoling than ours.

The yellow house gave him a sense of tranquility, because he was working to secure the future. He had drifted too much, knocked about without rhyme or reason. But now he was never going to move again.

He sensed that his art had reached a climax; that this was the high spot of his life, the moment toward which he had been striving all these years. He did not know how long it would last. He knew only that he had to paint pictures, and more pictures, and still more and more pictures. This climax of his life, this tiny point of infinity, had to be held, sustained, pushed out until he had created all those pictures that were gestating in his soul.

He had been eating regularly, sleeping regularly, avoiding excitement and intense enthusiasm. He was feeling so normal he could not paint.

No excellent soul is exempt from a mixture of madness!

05/02/04

The worst that being an artist could do to you would be that it would make your slightly unhappy constantly.

10/1/2002

The world abounds in deep systems, which show evidence of enormous "work" in fashioning them. Murray Gell-Mann once remarked to me that deep systems can be recognized because they are the ones we want to preserve. Shallow things can easily be reconstructed. We value paintings, scientific theories, works of music and literature, rare birds, and diamonds because they are all hard to manufacture. Motorcars, salt crystals, and tin cans we value less; they are relatively shallow.

The laws of physics have a twofold job. They must provide the simple patterns that underlie all physical phenomena, and they must also be of the form that enables depth -- organized complexity -- to emerge. That the laws of our universe possess this crucial dual property is a fact of literally cosmic significance.

11/6/2001

They had lavished so much attention on her, as a child, and then at some appointed, prearranged time they seemed to stop the flow of affection and begin the expectations -- as if, for a brief phase, you were expected to absorb love (and get enough), and then, for a much longer and more serious phase, you were expected to fulfill certain obligations.

What do you really need when you're two? ... The older they got, the more they needed; and the less anyone wanted or loved them.

10/?/2001

Nothing can cure the soul but the sense, just as nothing can cure the sense but the soul.

To get back one's youth, one has merely to repeat one's follies.

No woman is genius. Women are a decorative sex. They never have anything to say, but they say it charmingly. Women represent the triumph of matter over mind, just as men represent the triumph of mind over morals.

Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge them; sometimes they forgive them.

As for a spoiled life, no life is spoiled but one whose growth is arrested.

8/9/2001

 

When we are happy we are always good, but when we are good we are not always happy. (source unknown)

For most people there are only two places in the world, where they live and their TV set. If a thing happens on television, we have every right to find it fascinating, whatever it is.

7/27/2001