The urge to write seems to be a purge, to be taken from time to time to express what it is one believes one has learnt.
What a difference a few weeks can make and how powerful the influence of the season upon the mood. If ever evidence were needed that we are mere creatures of nature, there be it.
There is nothing more sobering than a great deal of time spent in a hospital with the critically ill. Nothing more rewarding either.
Most of us have developed a worldview but I wonder how many of us let doubt destroy it?
Many now hold that consciousness is a trick, wrought upon an illusory “us” by physics and you may therefore wish to contemplate whether you exist at all.
“What Am I” is the most important question I can ask and yet the answer may have to be discovered not by reasoning but by experience.
Does poetry have a purpose? If so, then what? I noticed today that by far the majority of WordPresss bloggers … More
Far from disappearing, Keats and his incomparable poetry have lived on after his death.
How damaging we are to each other. How grim the human condition can become, and it does not take war … More
I was wondering whether I really mean what I write? Or to turn it round another way, do I write what I mean?
I do not read the news because it is repetitive, dispiriting, boring and irrelevant.
To have lived a good life is all that matters in the end.
Happiness is perhaps best described as the absence of unhappiness.