I wonder if that's the perennial story of writers: you find the true light, you lose the true light, you find it again. And maybe again.

It shocks me how I wish for...what is lost and cannot come back.

I now understand that writing fiction was a seed planted in my soul, though I would not be ready to grow that seed for a long time.

The Truth is found when men (and Women) are free to pursue it.

Neither a man nor a crowd nor a nation can be trusted to act humanely or to think sanely under the influence of a great fear.

Think like the great, speak like the great, act like the great, and you will become like the great.

Finding your bliss can make survival seem like. And a strange thing happens along the way when you love what you are doing: you become good at it.

Warfare cannot be humanized.

Please tell me what can I do. There must be something I can do

I am pleased to tell you that he is finally getting some rest and is regaining his appetite as well.

There can be no burden for distant unreached peoples without a burden for unreached neighbors.

This world is moving around like a wheel. That indeed is the last birth in which one gets completely rid of all desires.

He that revels in a well-chosen library, has innumerable dishes, and all of admirable flavour.