Life is made of ever so many partings welded together.
The feeling about a soldier is, when all is said and done, he wasn’t really going to do very much with his life anyway. The example usually is: he wasn’t going to compose Beethoven’s Fifth.
Most people die of a sort of creeping common sense, and discover when it is too late that the only things one never regrets are one’s mistakes.
If it were possible to talk to the unborn, one could never explain to them how it feels to be alive, for life is washed in the speechless real.
It bothers me that I won’t live to see the end of the century, because, when I was young, in St. Louis, I remember saying to Marilyn, my sister by adoption, that that was how long I wanted to live: seventy years.
There is nothing more tragic than to find an individual bogged down in the length of life, devoid of breadth.
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