Read from a distant star, the majuscule script of our earthly existence would perhaps lead to the conclusion that the earth was the distinctively ascetic planet, a nook of disgruntled, arrogant creatures filled with a profound disgust with themselves, at the earth, at all life, who inflict as much pain on themselves as they possibly can out of pleasure in inflicting pain which is probably their only pleasure.

The only antidote to mental suffering is physical pain.

Separation from the wife, disgrace from one's own people, an enemy saved in battle, service to a wicked king, poverty, and a mismanaged assembly: these six kinds of evils, if afflicting a person, burn him even without fire.

The trees come up to my window like the yearning voice of the dumb earth.

People, whether they know it or not, like their blues singers miserable. They like their blues singers to die afterwards.

Pain makes hens and poets cackle.