Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely.
Beauty is whatever gives joy.
Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain; Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink And rise and sink and rise and sink again; Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath, Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone; Yet many a man is making friends with death Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
And must I then, indeed, Pain, live with you all through my life?-sharing my fire, my bed, Sharing-oh, worst of all things!-the same head?- And, when I feed myself, feeding you too?
Life is a quest and love a quarrel
It's not true that life is one damn thing after another; it is one damn thing over and over.
How strange a thing is death, bringing to his knees, bringing to his antlers The buck in the snow . . . Life, looking out attentive from the eyes of the doe.
Life goes on forever like the gnawing of a mouse.
Life has no friend.
Life in itself Is nothing, An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
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