You might lay floors of marble but you end up swallowing mud in the end.

My mother knows how to hit a nerve. And the pain I feel is worse than any other kind of misery. Because what she does always comes as a shock, exactly like an electric jolt, that grounds itself permanently in my memory.

They say that it’s hard for men to agree. You’d be surprised how easy it is—when both parties hold as their moral absolute that neither exists for the sake of the other and that reason is their only means of trade.

Here, on the river&#39;s verge, I could be busy for months without changing my place, simply leaning a little more to right or left.

Written By Paul Cezanne

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