I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones.
Man lives consciously for himself, but is an unconscious instrument in the attainment of the historic, universal, aims of humanity.
I write about myself with the same pencil and in the same exercise book as about him. It is no longer I, but another whose life is just beginning.
It is in moments of illness that we are compelled to recognize that we live not alone but chained to a creature of a different kingdom, whole worlds apart, who has no knowledge of us and by whom it is impossible to make ourselves understood: our body.
Every man casts a shadow; not his body only, but his imperfectly mingled spirit. This is his grief. Let him turn which way he will, it falls opposite to the sun; short at noon, long at eve. Did you never see it?
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