They say ignorance is bliss.... they're wrong
All language is but a poor translation.
Every revolution evaporates and leaves behind only the slime of a new bureaucracy.
Love is, that you are the knife which I plunge into myself.
In a way, you are poetry material; You are full of cloudy subtleties I am willing to spend a lifetime figuring out. Words burst in your essence and you carry their dust in the pores of your ethereal individuality.
We need the books that affect us like a disaster
Youth is happy because it has the ability to see beauty. Anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never grows old.
Life is merely terrible; I feel it as few others do. Often — and in my inmost self perhaps all the time — I doubt whether I am a human being.
Only the moment counts. It determines life.
The meaning of life is that it stops.
I am in chains. Don't touch my chains.
I lack nothing. I only needed myself.
The truth is always an abyss. One must — as in a swimming pool — dare to dive from the quivering springboard of trivial everyday experience and sink into the depths, in order to later rise again — laughing and fighting for breath — to the now doubly illuminated surface of things.
No matter how much you keep encouraging someone who is blindfolded to stare through the cloth, he still won’t see a thing.".
I can’t think of any greater happiness than to be with you all the time, without interruption, endlessly, even though I feel that here in this world there’s no undisturbed place for our love, neither in the village nor anywhere else; and I dream of a grave, deep and narrow, where we could clasp each other in our arms as with clamps, and I would hide my face in you and you would hide your face in me, and nobody would ever see us any more.
There is an infinite amount of hope in the universe ... but not for us.
There are only two things. Truth and lies. Truth is indivisible, hence it cannot recognize itself; anyone who wants to recognize it has to be a lie.
From a certain point onward there is no longer any turning back. That is the point that must be reached.
I miss you deeply, unfathomably, senselessly, terribly.
We need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us.
The man in ecstasy and the man drowning: both raise their arms.
In the fight between you and the world, back the world.
I wanted to escape the unrest, to shut out the voices around me and within me, so I write.
Evil is whatever distracts.
Being alone has a power over me that never fails. My interior dissolves (for the time being only superficially) and is ready to release what lies deeper. When I am willfully alone, a slight ordering of my interior begins to take place and I need nothing more.
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