Ah, the old questions, the old answers, there's nothing like them!
How all becomes clear and simple when one opens an eye on the within, having of course previously exposed it to the without, in order to benefit by the contrast.
The human eyelid is not teartight (happily for the human eye).
I open the door of the cell and go. I am so bowed I only see my feet, if I open my eyes, and between my legs a little trail of black dust. I say to myself that the earth is extinguished, though I never saw it lit.
We all are born mad. Some remain so.
Lick your neighbor as yourself!
Was I asleep? Had I slept?
Suffering is the main condition of the artistic experience.
And truly it little matters what I say, this or that or any other thing. Saying is inventing. Wrong, very rightly wrong. You invent nothing, you think you are inventing, you think you are escaping, and all you do is stammer out your lesson, the remnants of a pensum one day got by heart and long forgotten, life without tears, as it is wept.
I marshalled the words and opened my mouth, thinking I would hear them. But all I heard was a kind of rattle, unintelligible even to me who knew what was intended.
There is no escape from yesterday because yesterday has deformed us, or been deformed by us. The mood is of no importance. Deformation has taken place.
As it is with the love of the body, so with the friendship of the mind, the full is only reached by admittance to the most retired places.
I did not want to write, but I had to resign myself to it in the end.
What goes by the name of love is banishment, with now and then a postcard from the homeland, such is my considered opinion, this evening.
Deplorable mania, when something happens, to inquire what.
All I say cancels out, I’ll have said nothing.
I don't know why I told this story. I could just as well have told another. Perhaps some other time I'll be able to tell another. Living souls, you will see how alike they are.
What is more true than anything else? To swim is true and to sink is true. One cannot speak any more of being, one must speak onlyof the mess.
Yes, light, there is no other word for it.
Over, over, there is a soft place in my heart for all that is over, no, for the being over, words have been my only loves, not many.
She felt, as she felt so often with Murphy, spattered with words that went dead as soon as they sounded; each word obliterated, before it had time to make sense, by the word that came next; so that in the end she did not know what had been said. It was like difficult music heard for the first time.
For the only way one can speak of nothing is to speak of it as though it were something, just as the only way one can speak of God is to speak of him as though he were a man, which to be sure he was, in a sense, for a time, and as the only way one can speak of man, even our anthropologists have realized that, is to speak of him as though he were a termite.
There's no lack of void.
My keepers, why keepers, I'm in no danger of stirring an inch, ah I see, it's to make me think I'm a prisoner, frantic with corporeality, rearing to get out and away.
Absolute virtue is as sure to kill a man as absolute vice is, let alone the dullness of it and the pomposities of it.
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