Don't let the cat out or the concierge in: this is the first principle of socialist ladies.
I may know that the world is an ugly place, I still don't want to see it.
That's what the future is for: to build the present, with real plans, made by living people.
Humans live in a world where the weak are dominant. This is a terrible insult to our animal nature, a sort of perversion or a deep contradiction.
In the end, I wonder if the true movement of the world might not be a voice raised in song.
Pastries . . . can only be appreciated to the full extent of their subtlety when they are not eaten to assuage our hunger, when the orgy of their sugary sweetness is not destined to full some primary need but to coat our palate with all the benevolence of the world.
boredom was born on a day of uniformity.
Personally I think that grammar is a way to attain Beauty. When you speak, or read, or write, you can tell if you've spoken or read or written a fine sentence. You can recognise a well-tuned phrase or an elegant style. But when you are applying the rules of grammar skilfully, you ascend to another level of the beauty of language. When you use grammar you peel back the layers, to see how it is all put together, to see it quite naked, in a way.
We never look beyond our assumptions and what's worse, we have given up trying to meet others; we just meet ourselves.
What is writing, no matter how lavish the pieces, if it says nothing of the truth, cares little for the heart, and is merely subservient to the pleasure of showing one's brilliance.
Melancholy overwhelms me at supersonic speed.
People think that children don't know anything. It's enough to make you wonder if grownups were ever children once upon a time.
When tea becomes ritual, it takes place at the heart of our ability to see greatness in small things.
When illness enters a home, not only does it take hold of a body. It also weaves a dark web between hearts, a web where hope is trapped.
shocked to realize how much vitality is required simply to support our primitive requirements, we wonder, bewildered, where Art fits in.
Conclusion: better to be a thinking monk than a postmodern thinker.
A man who farts in bed . . . is a man who loves life.
Maybe that's what being alive is about: so we can track down those movments that are dying.
Live or die: mere consequences of what you have built. What matters is building well.
They didn't recognize me," I repeat. He stops in turn, my hand still on his arm. "It is because they have never seen you," he says. "I would recognize you anywhere.
We musn't forget old people with their rotten bodies, old people who are so close to death, something that young people don't want to think about. We musn't forget that our bodies decline, friends die, everyone forgets about us, and the end is solitude. Nor must we forget that these old people were young once, that a lifespan is pathetically short, that one day you're twenty and the next day you're eighty.
What makes the strength of a soldier isn't the energy he uses trying to intimidate the other guy by sending him a whole lot of signals, it's the strength he's able to concentrate within himself, by staying centered.
Levin delights in the forgetfulness that movement brings, where the pleasure of doing is marvellously foreign to the striving of the will.
But the world, in its present state, is no place for princesses.
... they have never seen you ... I would recognize you anywhere.
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