Life is fragile and absurd.

A life is such a strange object, at one moment translucent, at another utterly opaque, an object I make with my own hands, an object imposed on me, an object for which the world provides the raw material and then steals it from me again, pulverized by events, scattered, broken, scored yet retaining its unity; how heavy it is and how inconsistent: this contradiction breeds many misunderstandings.

We have a disturbed relationship with our past which religion cannot explain. We are primitive in unexplainable ways, our lives woven of the familiar and the strange, the reasonable and the insane.

Such is life's irony.

Life is the farce we are all forced to endure.

How mutable are our feelings, and how strange is that clinging love we have of life even in the excess of misery!

How strange and changeful is life! How small a thing is needed to make or ruin us!

The world, dear Agnes, is a strange affair.

The crux of the curious difficulty lies in the fact that our conscious views of what life ought to be seldom correspond to what life really is.

Life is the strange loop of a snake releasing itself from its own grip, unmouthing an ever fattening tail tapering up to an ever increasingly large mouth, birthing an ever larger tail, filling the universe with this strangeness.

Life itself has become ludicrous.

Our waking life's desire to shape the world to our convenience invites all manner of paradox and difficulty.

It is fateful and ironic how the lie we need in order to live dooms us to a life that is never really ours.

Life is a strange thing. Why this longing for life? It is a game which no man wins. To live is to toil hard and to suffer sore, till old age creeps heavily upon us and we throw down our hands on the cold ashes of dead fires. It is hard to live. In pain the babe sucks his first breath, in pain the old man gasps his last, and all his days are full of trouble and sorrow; yet he goes down to the open arms of death, stumbling, falling, with head turned backward, fighting to the last. And death is kind. It is only life and the things of life that hurt. Yet we love life and we hate death. It is very strange.