Gratitude is a rare frame of mind; and those who are grateful can seldom find a way to express what they feel. They are overwhelmed by silence; are shamefaced; and, sometimes, actually try to hide their feelings.
There is always a mysterious conflict in every artist; if life treats him roughly he longs for peace and calm, but if he comes into safe harbour he longs to be back in the turmoil.
And once again I feel, in horror, how weak, poor and flabby a substance whatever we call by the names of soul, spirit or feeling must be after all, not to mention what we describe as pain, since all this, even to the utmost degree, is insufficient to destroy the suffering flesh of the tormented body entirely – for we do survive such hours and our blood continues to pulse, instead of dying and falling like a tree struck by lightning.“...
For a society is always most cruel to those who disclose and reveal its secrets, when through dishonesty society itself has outraged Nature.
Nothing was done to us – we were simply placed in a complete void, and everyone knows that nothing on earth exerts such pressure on the human soul as a void.
It’s not your fault. But whose fault is it? Why are we always the ones who suffer? We didn’t do anything, we didn’t do anything to anyone, but every step we take is a trap.
I had no witness against me left but my own memory.“...
War does not permit itself to be coordinated with reason and righteousness. It needs stimulated emotions, enthusiasm for its own cause and hatred for the adversary.
This contact with the overpowering is her first encounter with travel’s disconcerting ability to strip the hard shell of habit from the heart, leaving only the bare, fertile kernel.
Poverty was crushing all the feeling they had. It was intolerable to be together this way, and yet they tolerated it.
See, that’s what we’re like. You’re brave and you’re not afraid to die, but you’re afraid of being late for work. That’s how enslaved we are, that’s how ingrained it is.
Has this new dress, this new world made me so different? Or was this inside me all along, and I was just too fainthearted, too timid? That’s what Mother always said. Maybe everything’s not so hard, maybe life is so much easier than I thought, you just need courage, you just need to have a sense of yourself, then you’ll discover your hidden resources.
But you wouldn’t believe what a dead finger does to a living hand.
The woman has a dangerous decision to confront, whether she will live her own life, or that of her children, whether she will be a woman first or a mother first.
The most just death is that which is most willed. Our lives depend on the will of others, but death on ourselves alone. There is nothing to which we should apply ourselves more than this. Reputation has no place here and it is folly to think of it. Life is servitude if we lack the freedom to die.
Death is a certain refuge, never to be feared”; “Strong diseases require strong remedies”, writes Montaigne.
It is my opinion that you should lend yourself to others and give yourself only to yourself.
He felt that it was a mistake to look for signs and portents instead of waiting until they were revealed to him in their own good time.
Nothing on earth exerts such pressure on the human soul as a void.
It’s no use torturing oneself; it only tortures other people.