There is nothing glamorous or romantic about war. It’s mostly about random pointless death and misery.
I read somewhere… how important it is in life not necessarily to be strong, but to feel strong… to measure yourself at least once.
He was unheeded, happy, and near to the wild heart of life. He was alone and young and wilful and wildhearted, alone amid a waste of wild air and brackish waters and the seaharvest of shells and tangle and veiled grey sunlight.
What if I were smiling and running into your arms? Would you see then what I see now?
I understood what he was doing, that he had spent four years fulfilling the absurd and tedious duty of graduating from college and now he was emancipated from that world of abstraction, false security, parents, and material excess.
Now what is history? It is the centuries of systematic explorations of the riddle of death, with a view to overcoming death. That’s why people discover mathematical infinity and electromagnetic waves, that’s why they write symphonies..
I’m going to paraphrase Thoreau here… rather than love, than money, than faith, than fame, than fairness… give me truth.
Some people feel like they don’t deserve love. They walk away quietly into empty spaces, trying to close the gaps of the past.
Mr. Franz, I think careers are a 20th century invention and I don’t want one.