All human beings hang by a thread, an abyss may open under their feet at any moment, and yet they have to go and invent all sortsof difficulties for themselves and spoil their lives.
I was afraid of looking into my heart...afraid of thinking seriously about anything...I did not want to know whether I was loved, and I did not want to admit to myself that I was not loved.
What's important is that twice two is four and all the rest's nonsense.
Nature is not a temple, but a workshop, and man's the workman in it.
I've become convinced that every person should treat himself strictly and even rudely and distrustfully; it's difficult to tame the beast in oneself.
In my case there was no first love. I began with the second.
That's what children are for—that their parents may not be bored.
What's terrible is that there's nothing terrible, that the very essence of life is petty, uninteresting, and degradingly trite.
You may live a long while with some people and be on friendly terms with them and never speak openly with them from your soul.
A poet must be a psychologist, but a secret one: he should know and feel the roots of phenomena but present only the phenomena themselves in full bloom or as they fade away.
So many memories and so little worth remembering, and in front of me - a long, long road without a goal.
Nature cares nothing for logic, our human logic: she has her own, which we do not recognize and do not acknowledge until we are crushed under its wheel
There's only one way for an individual to remain upright, not to fall to pieces, not to sink into the mire of self-oblivionorself-contempt. That's calmly to turn away from everything, to say, "Enough!" and, folding one's useless arms across one's empty breast, to retain the ultimate, the sole attainable virtue, the virtue of recognizing one's own insignificance.
Each individual is more or less dimly aware of his significance, is aware that he's something innately superior, something eternal--and lives, is obligated to live, in the moment and for the moment.
Everyone needs help from everyone else.
I don't see why it's impossible to express everything that's on one's mind.
So long as one's just dreaming about what to do, one can soar like an eagle and move mountains, it seems, but as soon as one starts doing it one gets worn out and tired.
There's something tragic in the fate of almost every person--it's just that the tragic is often concealed from a person by the banal surface of life.... A woman will complain of indigestion and not even know that what she means is that her whole life has been shattered.
I look up to heaven only when I want to sneeze.
I walked in the meadows of green grieving for my life.
I'm incapable of describing the feeling with which I left. I wouldn't want it ever to be repeated, but I would have considered myself unfortunate if I'd never experienced it.
The past was a dream wasn't it? And who ever remembers dreams?
I share no man's opinions; I have my own.
I only know that I feel tired, antiquated; I feel as though I had been living a long, long time.
No matter how often you knock at nature's door, she won't answer in words you can understand--for Nature is dumb. She'll vibrate and moan like a violin, but you mustn't expect a song.
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