The stuff of nightmare is their plain bread. They butter it with pain. They set their clocks by deathwatch beetles, and thrive the centuries. They were the men with the leather-ribbon whips who sweated up the Pyramids seasoning it with other people's salt and other people's cracked hearts. They coursed Europe on the White Horses of the Plague. They whispered to Caesar that he was mortal, then sold daggers at half-price in the grand March sale. Some must have been lazing clowns, foot props for emperors, princes, and epileptic popes. Then out on the road, Gypsies in time, their populations grew as the world grew, spread, and there was more delicious variety of pain to thrive on. The train put wheels under them and here they run down the log road out of the Gothic and baroque; look at their wagons and coaches, the carving like medieval shrines, all of it stuff once drawn by horses, mules, or, maybe, men.

Some say that "there is no such thing as free lunch". And, I ask, why not? The joy of giving without expecting anything in return from a particular source is simply magic.

Das Glück ist das einzige, das sich verdoppelt, wenn man es teilt.

Nothing is more egregious than greedy politicians.

The tragedy is that what you disapprove of in others is the very thing you disapprove of in yourself.

Without haters, you can't see the level of your progress, that shows you that haters are necessary evil.