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“Hope is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something is worth doing no matter how it turns out.”

An authentic life is an act of rebellion against a world that offers us no meaning, building sandcastles in defiance of an unconquerable rising tide.

“My time of the year, November. The month when I re-read books, leaf through papers, gather notes. It’s a kind of hunger for work, for activity, for taking up all the old tasks once again. And that damp organic smell in the morning when I go out — and the warm halos of lamplight in the evening when I return …”

How does one hate a country, or love one? […] I know people, I know towns, farms, hills and rivers and rocks, I know how the sun at sunset in autumn falls on the side of a certain plowland in the hills; but what is the sense of giving a boundary to all that, of giving it a name and ceasing to love where the name ceases to apply?