I don’t pretend reality is the same for everyone.
A birth is not really a beginning. Our lives at the start are not really our own but only the continuation of someone else’s story.
When fear and cold make a statue of you in your bed, don’t expect hard-boned and fleshless truth to come running to your aid. What you need are the plump comforts of a story. The soothing, rocking safety of a lie.
No one can hold you to a decision made in the middle of the night.
I’ve nothing against people who love truth. Apart from the fact that they make dull companions.
When one is nothing, one invents. It fills a void.
A story so cherished it has to be dressed in casualness to disguise its significance in case the listener turned out to be unsympathetic.
All children mythologise their birth. It is a universal trait. You want to know someone? Heart, mind and soul? Ask him to tell you about when he was born. What you get won’t be the truth: it will be a story. And nothing is more telling than a story.
…but he is a man, hence cannot see how tiresome it is to have explained at length what one has already fully understood.
People with ambition don’t give a damn what other people think of them.