It is not possible to love groups, countries, systems . . . only another person, single and alone. Only by such love is the emotion that is love revealed. And it is only in the Eden of such love that the horror of the atrocities we commit on individuals in the name of the Universal Brotherhood or Sisterhood of Love reveal themselves for what they are: the lust to dominate.
Anyone capable of universal love is capable of universal destruction. Nothing is as deluding as the belief that there can exist a real love between an animate being and a general principle. There is only one kind of love that can be called by that name; the overwhelming bond of affection felt by one individual person for another individual person. All else is delusion.
It is easier to charge weaponless into the enemy’s trench, thrust forward on that fearful shaft of adrenaline, than to face the tiny, almost insignificant problems of living every day. For in that one headlong charge the die is cast, the stakes are Life and Death . . . and suddenly all is clear. In the other, nothing is clear. Not one, but hundreds of decisions are required, not once, but manyfold multiplied by thousandfold . . . and in the end, the stakes are just as high.
It was a Jew that told me: there is no security.
Honesty is a state of mind, not an act. Truth is something else again. When a person is honest, he or she says what is on his or her mind, what has been on it, what is likely to be on it. He or she cannot guarantee the future, but intimates it involves a sharing. When a person is truthful he or she simple says: “I do not know.” How simple it is to live: how complex to dissemble.
It rumbles like the coming storm in the pit of night, rushes, flashes, rains down upon all before it. It is surprisingly beneficial, both to the atmosphere and the ground upon which it falls.
Fear is a strong emotion, but not as strong as grief. Fear can turn giants to cowards, heroes to weaklings, all in seconds. Yet it vanishes completely in time. Grief overwhelms; wholly engulfs the universe held by love; leaves a sense of loss so profound the ache is never stilled. Then it, too, passes, till a chance remark, a token, a fleeting thought one day releases its remembrance and a sense of loss grown greater with the passing of time, and a voice of love that calls and calls and calls and is never answered.
Grief is an assassin. You think you scarcely feel it any more. Then it creeps up from memory grown strong with time; awaits your weakest moment; strikes you down with tears.
Truth is what you are able to bear at the moment. The facts are something else.
Kindness is a friend who senses what you can bear and tries gently to help you extend your boundaries.