Day and night, their frail and crippled ships defy the tempest.
The I feel a contentment in defeat, I reflected, simply because defeat has come, because it is infinitely connected to all the acts that are, that were, and that shall be, because to censure or deplore a single real act is to blaspheme against the universe.
I carried out my plan because I felt The Chief had some fear of those of my race, of those uncountable forebears whose culmination lies in me. I wished to prove to him that a yellow man could save his armies.
We spend our lives waiting for our book and it never comes.
Happy is he who forgives others and who forgives himself.
Today is tomorrow and yesterday.
In death we shall rediscover all the instants of our life and we shall freely combine them as in dreams.
Know this: in some way you’re already dead.
In my soul the afternoon grows wider and I reflect.
Perhaps a feature of the crucified face lurks in every mirror; perhaps the face died, was erased, so that God may be all of us. Who knows but that tonight we may see it in the labyrinth of dreams, and tomorrow not know we saw it.
La lectura debe ser una de las formas de la felicidad y no se puede obligar a nadie a ser feliz.
When people write in favor or against anybody, that hardly helps or hurts them... man can be done or undone by his own writing, not by what other people say of him.
I thought of a labyrinth of labyrinths, of one sinuous spreading labyrinth that would encompass the past and the future and in some way involve the stars.
There is a saying that only the man who has already committed a crime and repented of it is incapable of that crime; to be free of an erroneous opinion, I myself might add, one must at some time have professed it.
Solitude weighs me down. Company does too.
I leave to various future times, but not to all, my garden of forking paths.
Misery requires paradises lost.
I owe my first inkling of the problem of infinity to a large biscuit tin that was a source of vertiginous mystery during my childhood.
Application, resignation, and chance had gone into the writing; I saw, however, that Daneri’s real work lay not in the poetry but in his invention of reasons why the poetry should be admired. Of course, this second phase of his effort modified the writing in his eyes, though not in the eyes of others.
I came to abominate my body, I came to sense that two eyes, two hands, two lungs are as monstrous as two faces.