And Yale is November, crisp and energetic. - F. Scott Fitzgerald

One writes of scars healed, a loose parallel to the pathology of the skin, but there is no such thing in the life of an individual. There open wounds, shrunk sometimes to the size of a pinprick, but wounds still. The marks of suffering are more comparable to the loss of a finger, or of the sight of an eye. We may not miss them, either, for one minute in a year, but if we should there is nothing to be done about it.

Once we were one person, and always it will be a little that way.

There's no substitute for will. Sometimes you have to fake will when you don't feel it at all.