Life is a disease, brother, and death begins already at birth. Every breath, every heartbeat, is a moment of dying - a little shove toward the end.
He begins to notice that he has been turned out of the silent company of the trees, the animals, the stars, and the unconscious life.
For a moment I had a strange intuition that just this, and in a real, profound sense, is life; and perhaps happiness even - love with a mixture of sadness, reverence, and silent knowledge.
It was a melancholy secret that reality can arouse desires but never satisfy them.
It's only terrible to have nothing to wait for.
Nothing is the mirror in which you see the world.
Sometimes I used to think that one day I should wake up, and all that had been would be over. forgotten, sunk, drowned. Nothing was sure - not even memory.
I had the feeling of slipping down a smooth bottomless pit. It had nothing to do with Breuer and the people. It had nothing to do with Pat even. It was the melancholy secret that reality can arouse desires but never satisfy them; that love begins with a human being but does not end in him; and that everything can be there: a human being, love, happiness, life and that yet in some terrible way it is always too little, and grows ever less the more it seems.
To forget is the secret of eternal youth. One grows old only through memory. There's much too little forgetting.
I wandered through the streets thinking of all the things I might have said and might have done had I been other than I was.
He begins to notice that he has been turned out of the silent company of the trees, the animals, the stars, and the unconscious life.
For a moment I had a strange intuition that just this, and in a real, profound sense, is life; and perhaps happiness even - love with a mixture of sadness, reverence, and silent knowledge.
It was a melancholy secret that reality can arouse desires but never satisfy them.
It's only terrible to have nothing to wait for.
Nothing is the mirror in which you see the world.
Sometimes I used to think that one day I should wake up, and all that had been would be over. forgotten, sunk, drowned. Nothing was sure - not even memory.
I had the feeling of slipping down a smooth bottomless pit. It had nothing to do with Breuer and the people. It had nothing to do with Pat even. It was the melancholy secret that reality can arouse desires but never satisfy them; that love begins with a human being but does not end in him; and that everything can be there: a human being, love, happiness, life and that yet in some terrible way it is always too little, and grows ever less the more it seems.
To forget is the secret of eternal youth. One grows old only through memory. There's much too little forgetting.
I wandered through the streets thinking of all the things I might have said and might have done had I been other than I was.
No comments:
Post a Comment