So, I travel a lot. I hate traveling, mostly 'cause my dad used to beat me with a globe.
We call "happiness" a certain set of circumstances that makes joy possible. But we call joy that state of mind and emotions that needs nothing to feel happy.
The most subtle art, the strongest and deepest art - supreme art - is the one that does not at first allow itself to be recognized.
The finest virtues can become deformed with age. The precise mind becomes finicky; the thrifty man, miserly; the cautious man, timorous; the man of imagination, fanciful. Even perseverance ends up in a sort of stupidity. Just as, on the other hand, being too willing to understand too many opinions, too diverse ways of seeing, constancy is lost and the mind goes astray in a restless fickleness.
Through loyalty to the past, our mind refuses to realize that tomorrow's joy is possible only if today's makes way for it; that each wave owes the beauty of its line only to the withdrawal of the preceding one.
The color of truth is gray.
In other people's company I felt I was dull, gloomy, unwelcome, at once bored and boring.
When people put my name next to (Babe) Ruth's name it still blows me away. I'm still in awe.
One may as well be asleep as to read for anything but to improve his mind and morals, and regulate his conduct.
I'm sure I took some licks at the system, and at trials and lawyers in general. I've seen enough of them for so many years both as a cop and a defendant in defamation cases.
Men walk this tightrope where any sign of weakness illicits shame, and so they're afraid to make themselves vulnerable for fear of looking weak.