Cold comradeship do stars provide.They light the closer, inner sideOf night's vast weight, which, chill and clear,Pulls on us like some puppeteer.Its unseen threads to heads and heartsAttached, it acts us through our parts,From birth's first cry to bent old age,Upon our distant, tiny stage.

There is no shortage of fault to be found amidst our stars.

There is not shortage of fault to be found amidst our stars.

To be angry at the gods is to scream at the stars. Even if they hear, they will not stop shining.

And the geography of the thing--the geography of them--was completely and hopelessly wrong.

There had to be something wrong with my life. I should have been born a Yugoslavian shepherd who looked up at the Big Dipper every night.