Is it not enough that we cannot make one another happy, must we also rob one another of the pleasures that any heart may permit itself now and then? And name me a person who in a bad mood will be decent enough to hide it, to bear it alone, without destroying the joy around him. Is it not rather an inner dissatisfaction with our own unworthiness, a dislike of ourselves that is always associated with envy aggravated by foolish conceit? We see people happy and not made happy by us, and that is unbearable.
Johann Wolfgang von GoetheAbout author
- Author's profession: Poet
- Nationality: deutsch
- Born: August 28, 1749
- Died: March 22, 1832
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Not that I'm complaining. It was better than my old dream, where Harma Dogshead was feeding me to her pigs."Harma's dead." Jon said."But not the pigs. They look at me the way Slayer used to look at ham. Not to say that the wildlings mean us harm. Aye, we hacked their gods apart and made them burn the pieces, but we gave them onion soup. What's a god compared to a nice bowl of onion soup? I could do with mine myself.
George R. R. Martin
Nothing would bother me more than if they found me strange at the office. I like to revel in the irony that they don't find me at all strange. I like the hair shirt of being regarded by them as their equal. I like the crucifixion of being considered no different. THere are martyrdoms more subtle than those recorded for the saints and hermits. There are torments of our mental awareness as there are of the body and of desire. And in the former, as in the latter, there's a certain sensuality.....
Fernando Pessoa
I dreamed vaguely of killing myself to wipe out at least one of these superfluous lives. But even my death would have been In the way. In the way, my corpse, my blood on these stones, between these plants, at the back of this smiling garden. And the decomposed flesh would have been In the way in the earth which would receive my bones, at last, cleaned, stripped, peeled, proper and clean as teeth, it would have been In the way: I was In the way for eternity.
Jean-Paul Sartre
Spring and Fall: To a Young Child
Mrgart, are you greving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leves, lke the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! s the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you wll weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Srrow's sprngs re the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It s the blight man was born...
Gerard Manley Hopkins
