To feel today what one felt yesterday isn't to feel - it's to remember today what was felt yesterday, to be today's living corpse of what yesterday was lived and lost.
The unnatural and the strange have a perfume of their own
To be great, be whole; Exclude nothing, exaggerate nothing that is not you. Be whole in everything. Put all you are Into the smallest thing you do. So, in each lake, the moon shines with splendor Because it blooms up above.
Friends: not one. Just a few acquaintances who imagine they feel something for me and who might be sorry if a train ran over me and the funeral was on a rainy day.
I asked for very little from life, and even this little was denied me. A nearby field, a ray of sunlight, a little bit of calm along with a bit of bread, not to feel oppressed by the knowledge that I exist, not to demand anything from others, and not to have others demand anything from me - this was denied me, like the spare change we might deny a beggar not because we're mean-hearted but because we don't feel like unbuttoning our coat.
Blessed are those who entrust their lives to no one.
Let us sculpt in hopeless silence all our dreams of speaking.
I am tired of myself in every way. All things, deep down to the secret of their roots, are stained by the color of my weariness.
Should I be what I think? But I think about being so many things!
In this metallic age of barbarians, only a relentless cultivation of our ability to dream, to analyse and to captivate can prevent our personality from degenerating into nothing or else into a personality like all the rest.
The essence of what I desire is simply this: to sleep away life.
Oh salty sea, how much of your salt Is tears from Portugal?
The superiority of the dreamer is that dreaming is much more practical than living, and that the dreamer extracts from life a much vaster and varied pleasure than the action man. In better and more direct words, the dreamer is the real action man.
Without madness what is man But a wholesome beast, Postponed corpse that begets?
We live by action—by acting on desire. Those of us who don't know how to want—whether geniuses or beggars—are related by impotence.
My soul's the present shadow of a presence gone.
To have opinions is to sell out to youself. To have no opinions is to exist. To have every opinion is to be a poet.
There's a tiredness of abstract inteligence, and it's the most horrible of tirednesses. It doesn't weight on you like the tiredness of the body, nor does it worry you like the tiredness of knowledge and emotion. It's a weightiness of the conscience of the world, an inability of the soul to breathe.
If we knew the truth, we'd see it; all else is system and outskirts.
I carry my awareness of defeat like a banner of victory.
Let's buy books so as not to read them; let's go to concerts without caring to hear the music or see who's there; let's take long walks because we're sick of walking; and let's spend whole days in the country, just because it bores us.
If, on thinking this, I look up to see if reality can quench my thirst, I see inexpressive facades, inexpressive faces, inexpressive gestures. Stones, bodies, ideas - all dead. All movements are one great standstill. Nothing means anything to me, not because it's unfamiliar but because I don't know what it is. The world has slipped away. And in the bottom of my soul - as the only reality of this moment - there's an intense and invisible grief, a sadness like the sound of someone crying in a dark room.
I know nothing and my heart aches
God gave the sea the danger and the abyss, but it was in it that He mirrored the sky.
For I am the size of what I see / not my height's size.
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