Nothing is permanent in this wicked world, not even our troubles
Anything is a waste of time unless you are fucking well or creating well or getting well or looming toward a kind of phantom-love-happiness.
The History of the world is not the theatre of happiness. Periods of happiness are blank pages in it, for they are periods of harmony – periods when the antithesis is in abeyance.
History is not the soil of happiness. The periods of happiness are blank pages in it.