In an ideal world the gossip of the idle would be of no consequence. But I have seen the consequences in the real world and they can be very grave indeed.
I think it is better to make a study of smaller things. Then the larger will follow. In smaller things one can progress. There one’s efforts are repaid.
You will see. It is difficult even for brothers to travel together on such a voyage. The road has its own reasons and no two travelers will have the same understanding of those reasons. If indeed they come to an understanding of them at all.
If you pursue this road that you’ve embarked upon, you will eventually come to moral decisions that will take you completely by surprise.
It is not to be thought that the life of darkness is sunk in misery and lost as if in sorrowing. There is no sorrowing. For sorrow is a thing that is swallowed up in death, and death and dying are the very life of the darkness. JACOB BOEHME.
Itinerant degenerates bleeding westward like some heliotropic plague.
Imi aduc aminte cind s-a pensionat tata si mama i-a spus: “Am zis ca la bine si la rau, dar n-am zis nimic despre prinz”.
E’ una questione personale. E’ proprio questo l’effetto dell’istruzione. Rende il mondo intero qualcosa di personale.
E o femeie tinara in o multime de privinte. Daca n-as fi avut-o, nu stiu ce m-as fi facut. De fapt, ba da, stiu. Si nici n-ar fi fost nevoie de o cutie pentru asta.
There was nothing along the road save the country it traversed and there was nothing in the country at all.
Even if you knew what to do you wouldnt know what to do. You wouldnt know if you wanted to do it or not.
The small sands in that waste was all there was for the wind to move and it moved with a constant migratory seething upon itself. As if in its ultimate granulation the world sought some stay against its own eternal wheeling.
If one were to be a person of value that value could not be a condition subject to the hazards of fortune.
His own tracks came from the cave bloodred with cavemud and paled across the slope as if the snow had cauterized his feet until he left dry white prints in the snow.
She raised her eyes and looked at him. He’d never seen despair before. He thought he had, but he had not.
The world is quite ruthless in selecting between the dream and the reality, even where we will not. Between the wish and the thing the world lies waiting.
I knew that courage came with less struggle for some than for others but I believed that anyone who desired it could have it. That the desire was the thing itself. The thing itself. I could think of nothing else of which that was true.
Things separate from their stories have no meaning. They are only shapes of a certain size and color. A certain weight. When their meaning has become lost to us they no longer have even a name.
Those whom life does not cure death will.
I’ve no sympathy with people to whom things happen. It may be that their luck is bad, but is that to count in their favor? I.