No one ever lacks a good reason for suicide.
Great lovers will always be unhappy, because, for them, love is of supreme importance. Consequently they demand of their beloved the same intensity of thought as they have for her, otherwise they feel betrayed.
You will hear words old and spent and useless like costumes left over from yesterday's parties.
Suffering is by no means a privilege, a sign of nobility, a reminder of God. Suffering is a fierce, bestial thing, commonplace, uncalled for, natural as air. It is intangible; no one can grasp it or fight against it; it dwells in time - is the same thing as time; if it comes in fits and starts, that is only so as to leave the sufferer more defenseless during the moments that follow, those long moments when one relives the last bout of torture and waits for the next.
A man is never completely alone in this world. At the worst, he has the company of a boy, a youth, and by and by a grown man - the one he used to be.
At great periods you have always felt, deep within you, the temptation to commit suicide. You gave yourself to it, breached your own defenses. You were a child. The idea of suicide was a protest against life; by dying, you would escape this longing for death.
Love has the faculty of making two lovers seem naked, not in each other's sight, but in their own.
Reality is a prison, where one vegetates and always will.
We like to have work to do, so as to have the right to rest.
Misfortunes cannot suffice to make a fool into an intelligent man.
Certainly, to have a woman who waits at home for you, who will sleep with you, gives a warm feeling like having something you must say; it makes you glow, keeps you company, helps you to live.
What is to come will emerge only after long suffering, long silence.
Give me the ready hand rather than the ready tongue.
Are you or aren't you convinced that weakness is a man's condition? How can you raise yourself if you haven't fallen first?
Love is the cheapest of religions.
The only reason why we are always thinking of our own ego is that we have to live with it more continuously than with anyone else's.
Remember, writing poetry is like making love: one will never know whether one's own pleasure is shared.
If it is true that one gets used to suffering, how is it that as the years go one always suffers more? No, they are not mad, those people who amuse themselves, enjoy life, travel, make love, fight they are not mad. We should like to do the same ourselves.
Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi. (Death will come and it will have your eyes.)
Because, to despise money, one must have plenty of it.
Nowadays, suicide is just a way of disappearing. It is carried out timidly, quietly, and falls flat. It is no longer an action, only a submission.
All our "most sacred affections " are merely prosaic habit.
I am the captain of my destiny, I do not abandon the ship in hard times, But, I do have sense enough not to go down with the ship.
The man who cannot live with charity, sharing other men's pain, is punished by feeling his own with intolerable anguish.
When we read, we are not looking for new ideas, but to see our own thoughts given the seal of confirmation on the printed page. The words that strike us are those that awake an echo in a zone we have already made our own—the place where we live—and the vibration enables us to find fresh starting points within ourselves
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