There is a gulf fixed between those who can sleep and those who cannot. It is one of the greatest divisions of the human race.
What a test that is: more than devotion, admiration, passion. If you long and long for someone’s company you love them.
Almost any tale of our doings is comic. We are bottomlessly comic to each other. Even the most adored and beloved person is comic to his lover. The novel is a comic form. Language is a comic form, and makes jokes in its sleep. God, if He existed, would laugh at His creation. Yet it is also the case that life is horrible, without metaphysical sense, wrecked by chance, pain and the close prospect of death. Out of this is born irony, our dangerous and necessary tool.
But fantasy kills imagination, pornography is death to art.
All our failures are ultimately failures in love.
You cannot have both truth and what you call civilisation.
Perhaps misguided moral passion is better than confused indifference.
... half the world starves. What a planet. And the eating, if you're lucky enough to do any. Stuffing pieces of dead animals into a hole in your face. Then munch, munch, munch. If there's anybody watching, they must be dying of laughter.
True love gallops, it flies, it is the swiftest of all modes of thought, swifter even than hate and fear.
Being good is just a matter of temperament in the end.
We must live by the light of our own self-satisfaction, through that secret vital busy inwardness which is even more remarkable than our reason.
The notion that one can liberate another soul from captivity is an illusion of the very young.
Real misery cuts off all paths to itself.
Every man needs two women: a quiet home-maker, and a thrilling nymph.
Mathematics is good for the soul, getting things right enlivens a sense of truth, efforts to understand automatically purify desires.
... when caught unawares I usually tell the truth, and what's duller than that?
The bottomless bitter misery of childhood: how little even now it is understood. Probably no adult misery can be compared with a child's despair.
Moralistic is not moral. And as for truth - well, it's like brown - it's not in the spectrum. Truth is so generic.
No love is entirely without worth, even when the frivolous calls to the frivolous and the base to the base.
Upon the demon-ridden pilgrimage of human life, what next I wonder.
I just enjoy translating, it's like opening one's mouth and hearing someone else's voice emerge.
Only the very greatest art invigorates without consoling.
Art and psychoanalysis give shape and meaning to life and that is why we adore them, but life as it is lived has no shape and meaning.
There is no triumph of good, and if there were it would not be a triumph of good.
Time can divorce us from the reality of people, it can separate us from people and turn them into ghosts. Or rather it is we who turn them into ghosts or demons. Some kinds of fruitless preoccupations with the past can create such simulacra, and they can exercise power, like those heroes at Troy fighting for a phantom Helen.
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