过去总是在倾听，等待我们转身，以便在我们耳边低语。

我们都在阴沟里，但仍有人仰望星空。

我们都是遗传继承的马赛克。

To try to write love is to confront the muck of language: that region of hysteria where language is both too much and too little, excessive and impoverished.

A company that fails to adapt to the energy transition will be left behind.

I quite agree with them that it is not an ennobling experience. Poverty entails fear, and stress, and sometimes depression; it means a thousand petty humiliations and hardships. Climbing out of poverty by your own efforts, that is indeed something on which to pride yourself, but poverty itself is romanticised only by fools.