Philosophy: a purple bullfinch in a lilac tree.
There is no method but to be very intelligent.
I suspect that in our loathing of totalitarianism, there is infused a good deal of admiration for its efficiency.
History may be servitude. History may be freedom. See, now they vanish. The faces and places, with the self which, as it could, loved them, to become renewed, transfigured, in another pattern.
The lot of man is ceaseless labor, Or ceaseless idleness, which is still harder.
We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time. Through the unknown, remembered gate When the last of earth left to discover Is that which was the beginning; At the source of the longest river The voice of the hidden waterfall And the children in the apple-tree Not known, because not looked for But heard, half-heard, in the stillness Between two waves of the sea.
Sand. Everywhere. In the bed, in the shower, all over the floor. Grrrrr.
In a world of fugitives the one who stays home will seem to be running away
Can we only love Something created in our own imaginations?
I would meet you upon this honestly. I that was near your heart was removed therefrom To lose beauty in terror, terror in inquisition. I have lost my passion: why should I need to keep it Since what is kept must be adulterated? I have lost my sight, smell, hearing, taste and touch: How should I use them for your closer contact?
Only through time time is conquered
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, and I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, and in short, I was afraid.
Again I must remind you that a dog's a dog-a cat's a cat.
He had a mind so fine that no idea could violate it
Think not forever of yourselves, O Chiefs, nor of your own generation. Think of continuing generations of our families, think of our grandchildren and of those yet unborn, whose faces are coming from beneath the ground.
Our high respect for a well read person is praise enough for literature.
He who was living is now dead We who were living are now dying With a little patience.
Whatever you do, don't whimper, but take the consequences.
A condition of complete simplicity (Costing not less than everything)
Where shall the word be found, where will the word / Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence.
And indeed there will be time for the yellow smoke that slides along the street rubbing its back upon the window-panes; there will be time , there will be time to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; there will be time to murder and create, and time for all the works and days of hands that lift and drop a question on your plate; time for you and time for me, and time yet for a hundred indecisions, and for a hundred visions and revisions, before the taking of toast and tea.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought.
A good half of the effort of understanding what the Indian philosophers were after - and their subtleties make most of the great European philosophers look like schoolboys.
I do not believe that any writer has ever exposed this bovarysme, the human will to see things as they are not, more clearly than Shakespeare.
These fragments I have shored against my ruins
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