Because Love Is The Meeting Point Of

(on Grief) And You Do Come Out Of It, That’s True. After A Year, After Five. But You Don’t Come Out Of It Like A Train Coming Out Of A Tunnel, Bursting Through The Downs Into Sunshine And That Swift, Rattling Descent To The Channel; You Come Out Of It As A Gull Comes Out Of An Oil-slick. You Are Tarred And Feathered For Life.

Life … Is A Bit Like Reading. … If All Your Responses To A Book Have Already Been Duplicated And Expanded Upon By A Professional Critic, Then What Point Is There To Your Reading? Only That It’s Yours. Similarly, Why Live Your Life? Because It’s Yours. But What If Such An Answer Becomes Less And Less Convincing?

It Strikes Me That This May Be One Of The Differences Between Youth And Age: When We Are Young, We Invent Different Futures For Ourselves; When We Are Old, We Invent Different Pasts For Others.

Memory Is Identity....you Are What You Have Done; What You Have Done Is In Your Memory; What You Remember Defines Who You Are; When You Forget Your Life You Cease To Be, Even Before Your Death.

...life Is A Gift Bestowed Without Anyone Asking For It; That The Thinking Person Has A Philosophical Duty To Examine Both The Nature Of Life And The Conditions It Comes With; And That If This Person Decides To Renounce The Gift No One Asks For, It Is The Moral And Human Duty To Act On The Consequences Of That Decision.