The same is true of the laugh. Personally I have no bone to pick with graveyards, I take the air there willingly, perhaps more willingly than elsewhere, when take the air I must. What do I know of man's destiny. I could tell you more about radishes. How can one better magnify the Almighty than by sniggering with him at his little jokes, particularly the poorer ones.
Nothing happens, nobody comes, nobody goes, it's awful.
His writing is not about something. It is the thing itself. To think, when one is no longer young, when one is not yet old, that one is no longer young, that one is not yet old, that is perhaps something. Our bloom, our ideals. Make sense who may.