Bookish

I can find the joy only if I do my work in the best way possible to me. But the best is a matter of standards-and I set my own standards. I inherit nothing. I stand at the end of no tradition. I may, perhaps, stand at the beginning of one.

Every form has its own meaning. Every man creates his meaning and form and goal. Why is it important-what others have done? Why does it become sacred by the mere fact of not being your own? Why is anyone and everyone right-so long as it's not yourself? Why does the number of those others take the place of truth? Why is truth made a mere arithmetic-and only of addition at that? Why is everything twisted out of all sense to fit everything else? There must be some reason. I don't know. I've never known it. I'd like to understand.

It puzzled her endlessly that she was not, and had never really been, interested in happiness. She did not want to be unhappy. Of course, she didn't. It just did not occur to her to seek happiness as a worthwhile goal in life.

There's no wisdom without love. No love without freedom. And no freedom unless we dare to walk away from what we have become.