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To me the truth is something which cannot be told in a few words, and those who simplify the universe only reduce the expansion of its meaning.
I was thinking of my patients, and how the worst moment for them was when they discovered they were masters of their own fate. It was not a matter of bad or good luck. When they could no longer blame fate, they were in despair.
Is devotion to others a cover for the hungers and the needs of the self, of which one is ashamed? I was always ashamed to take. So I gave. It was not a virtue. It was a disguise.
I know why families were created with all their imperfections. They humanize you. They are made to make you forget yourself occasionally so that the beautiful balance of life is not destroyed.
Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage.
It is the function of art to renew our perception. What we are familiar with we cease to see. The writer shakes up the familiar scene, and, as if by magic, we see a new meaning in it.
Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.
The dream was always running ahead of me. To catch up, to live for a moment in unison with it, that was the miracle.
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