“I hate that aesthetic game of the eye and the mind, played by those connoisseurs, these mandarins who ‘appreciate’ beauty. What is beauty, anyway? There’s no such thing. I never ‘appreciate’, anymore than I ‘like.’ I love or I hate.”
Everything that is not perfect is imperfect. Period.
Sometimes, I like to imagine a life less exigent. To miss one beginning, is to look for another. The heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of. Who was that again? Pascal maybe…