The serial number of a human specimen is the face.
That accidental and unrepeatable combination of features.
It reflects neither character nor soul, nor what we call the self.
The face is only the serial number of a specimen.
Invisible threads are the strongest ones.
Rest is not idleness,
and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer’s day,
listening to the murmur of the water,
or watching the clouds float across the sky,
is by no means a waste of time.
Love is a fire.
But whether it is going to warm your hearth or burn down your house, you can never tell.
We are all alone, born alone, die alone, and—in spite of True Romance magazines—
we shall all someday look back on our lives and see that, in spite of our company, we were alone the whole way.
I do not say lonely—at least, not all the time—but essentially, and finally, alone.
This is what makes your self-respect so important, and I don’t see how you can respect yourself
if you must look in the hearts and minds of others for your happiness.
In his face there came to be a brooding peace that is seen most often in the faces of the very sorrowful or the very wise.
But still he wandered through the streets of the town, always silent and alone.