Life

There is no cure for birth or death save to enjoy the interval.

Parables, yes. We here are to lead life with woe. Tasting bitter.The Tai Chi instructor.

We are forever surrounded by ash. But we are fire. And fire rises.

That's why we have memory. And the opposite of memory— hope. So things that are gone can still matter. So we can built off our pasts and make future.

I too am my own forerunner, though I sit in the shadows of my trees and seem motionless.

The only way to move forward is to focus on the good in your life and the good that you are doing for others and yourself. My past has shown me things in life, others and myself that I wouldn't wish upon anyone, but I can choose to pick up the pieces and build a beautiful life for myself and help others to do the same.

We only live once, so why not do something different?

He had so long since ceased to direct his life toward any ideal goal, and had confined himself to the pursuit of quotidian satisfactions, that he had come to believe, though without ever formally stating his belief even to himself that he would remain all his life in that condition, which only death could alter.

Be true to the game, because the game will be true to you. If you try to shortcut the game, then the game will shortcut you. If you put forth the effort, good things will be bestowed upon you. That's truly about the game, and in some ways that's about life too.

We look up to see if it is day or night. If stars burn cool and moon does shine, we take to smoke divine and wine. If breath of sun does belch its heat, we boil coffee and prepare to eat.

And if I were to open you up - would you see anything less remarkable? Less intricately dazzling, in its squelching, spongy way? Lungs and heart and spleen, and all the rest - ticking away, as it were? Yet you walk down the boulevard, and pass any number of such wonderful devices, all ticking away as they walk, and think it no great marvel.

All suffering has an end, David, if only you wait long enough. Sorrow has its life like people. Sorrow is born and lives and dies. And when it's dead and gone, someone's left behind to remember it. Exactly like people.

As I approach my 88th birthday, it's become apparent to me that my eyes and ears, among other appurtenances, aren't quite what they used to be. The prospect of long flights to wherever in search of whatever are not quite as appealing.

Why do writers, say, give up a job in economics and decide to write poetry? Or, why do they give up a job in a bank and decide to paint, like Krishan Khanna? They want to convey something.

We are all time voyagers leaving history in our wake, pioneering into the future.

After a semester or so, my infatuation with computers burnt out as quickly as it had begun.

A bloody guy in overalls, wearing a straw hat, began chasing us. He held a saw, pointing it at us. We were gonna die! --The Body By the Tree.

So then do you think it's true that he killed someone? And what about the part where he wishes he could die?'If it IS true that he killed someone, that's bad.'In any case, 'it seems like something is bothering Shuji' was now a contender for the Understatement of the Century.

There is neither a Heaven for a Hell. Life after Death is an oxymoron. Life is just another word for existence, and Death is just another word for non-existence.

To a fireman, wind is a curse. To a sailor, wind is a blessing.