He looked at the paper before him. He wondered why ineptitude should exist and have its say.
I kept seeing you as you were. I couldn’t forget it. And that you should have become what you are – that does not belong in a rational universe.” “No? And the world as you see it around you does?” “You were not the kind of man who gets broken by any kind of world.
Philosophically, Romanticism is a crusade to glorify man’s existence; psychologically, it is experienced simply as the desire to make life interesting.
The human spirit. The heroic in man. The aspiration and the fulfillment, both. Uplifted in its quest – and uplifting by its own essence. Seeking God – and finding itself. Showing that there is no higher reach beyond its own form...
When you accept money in payment for your effort, you do so only on the conviction that you will exchange it for the product of the effort of others.
I’d rather be kind than right.
She knew that neither his clothes nor the years stood between her and the living intactness of that memory.
If lightning strikes a rotten tree and it collapses, it’s not the fault of the lightning.
It is here, it exists – but one must enter it naked and alone, with no rags from the falsehoods of centuries, with the purest clarity of mind – not an innocent heart, but that which is much rarer: an intransigent mind – as one’s only possession and key.
If, to him, love was a celebration of one’s self and of existence – then, to the self-haters and life-haters, the pursuit of destruction was the only form and equivalent of love.
The most beautiful words were those which were not needed.
The hours ahead, like all her nights with him, would be added, she thought, to that savings account of one’s life where moments of time are stored in the pride of having been lived.
In that transfusion of blood which drains the good to feed the evil, the compromise is the transmitting rubber tube.
Only the man who does not need it, is fit to inherit wealth – the man who would make his own fortune no matter where he started. If an heir is equal to his money, it serves him; if not, it destroys him. But you look on and you cry that money corrupted him. Did it? Or did he corrupt his money?
She did not expect to find him in the city; she did not want to find him. She never worried whether he would come or not. She never wondered whether he liked her. She never had any thought of him beyond the one that he existed. But she found it hard to find the existence of anything else.
But money is only a tool. It will take you wherever you wish, but it will not replace you as the driver. It will give you the means for the satisfaction of your desires, but it will not provide you with desires. Money is the scourge of the men who attempt to reverse the law of causality – the men who seek to replace the mind by seizing the products of the mind. “Money will not purchase happiness for the man who has no.
If you intend to keep your word, don’t talk about it, just do it.
It was his self-esteem she had sought to destroy, knowing that a man who surrenders his value is at the mercy of anyone’s will; it was his moral purity she had struggled to breach, it was his confident rectitude she had wanted to shatter by means of the poison of guilt – as if, were he to collapse, his depravity would give her a right to hers.
She felt no thrill of conquest; she felt herself owned more than ever, by a man who could say these things, know them to be true, and still remain controlled and controlling – as she wanted him to remain.
We wish nothing, save to be alone and to learn, and to feel as if with each day our sight were growing sharper than the hawk’s and clearer than rock crystal.