Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
Facts and particulars annoy me.
I work only with lost and founds.
I, who called love my hope for love.
To think is an act. To feel is a fact.
I only achieve simplicity with enormous effort
I write to save someone's life, probably my own
Holding someone's hand was always my idea of joy.
For one has the right to shout. So, I am shouting.
Brazil is where I have to be, where I have my roots.
Do you ever suddenly find it strange to be yourself?
I' is merely one of the world's instantaneous spasms.
Do not mourn the dead. They know what they are doing.
Living isn't courage, knowing that you're living, that's courage
Her curiosity instructed her more than the answers she was given.
The world's continual breathing is what we hear and call silence.
I write and that way rid myself of me and then at last I can rest.
There it is, the sea, the most incomprehensible of non-human existences.
You don't understand music: you hear it. So hear me with your whole body.
I hear the mad song of a little bird and crush butterflies between my fingers.
Do you know that hope sometimes consists only of a question without an answer?
So long as I have questions to which there are no answers, I shall go on writing.
But don't forget, in the meantime, that this is the season for strawberries. Yes.
The only truth is that I live. Sincerely, I live. Who am I? Well, that's a bit much.
In the world there exists no aesthetic plane, not even the aesthetic plane of goodness.
It is because I dove into the abyss that I am beginning to love the abyss I am made of.
Love is now, is always. All that is missing is the coup de grâce- which is called passion.
And I want to be held down. I don't know what to do with the horrifying freedom that can destroy me.
Everything in the world began with a yes. One molecule said yes to another molecule and life was born.
Who has not asked himself at some time or other: am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person?
No it is not easy to write. It is as hard as breaking rocks. Sparks and splinters fly like shattered steel.
I ask myself: is every story that has ever been written in this world, a story of suffering and affliction?
My life, the most truthful one, is unrecognizable, extremely interior, and there is no single word that gives it meaning.
Ela acreditava em anjo e, porque acreditava, eles existiam" | "She believed in angels, and, because she believed, they existed
Things were somehow so good that they were in danger of becoming very bad because what is fully mature is very close to rotting
I just know that I don't want cheating. I refuse. I deepened myself but I don't believe in myself because my thought is invented.
What I want is to live of that initial and primordial something that was what made some things reach the point of aspiring to be human.
For at the hour of death you became a celebrated film star, it is a moment of glory for everyone, when the choral music scales the top notes.
I write as if to save somebody’s life. Probably my own. Life is a kind of madness that death makes. Long live the dead because we live in them.
I want the following word: splendor, splendor is fruit in all its succulence, fruit without sadness. I want vast distances. My savage intuition of myself.
And even sadness was also something for rich people, for people who could afford it, for people who didn't have anything better to do. Sadness was a luxury.
How was she to tie herself to a man without permitting him to imprison her? And was there some means of acquiring things without those things possessing her?
Today at school I wrote an essay about Flag Day which was so beautiful, but ever so beautiful - for I even used words without really knowing what they meant.
Reality prior to my language exists as an unthinkable thought. . . . life precedes love, bodily matter precedes the body, and one day in its turn language shall have preceded possession of silence.
Whether she won or lost, she would continue to wrestle with life. It would not be with her own life alone but with all of life. Something had finally been released within her. And there it was, the sea.
Even great men are only truly recognized and honored once they are dead. Why? Because those who praise them need to feel themselves somehow superior to the person praised, they need to feel they are making some concession.
And now -- now it only remains for me to light a cigarette and go home. Dear God, only now am I remembering that people die. Does that include me? Don't forget, in the meantime, that this is the season for strawberries. Yes.
For only when I err do I get away from what I know and what I understand. If "truth" were what I can understand, it would end up being but a small truth, my-sized. Truth must reside precisely in what I shall never understand.
Love is so much more deadly than I had thought, love is so much inherent as the very lack, and we are guaranteed by a need to be renewed continuously. Love is now, is forever. There is just the blow of grace - call it passion.
But I welcome the darkness where the two eyes of that soft panther glow. The darkness is my cultural broth. The enchanted darkness. I go on speaking to you, risking disconnection: I’m subterraneously unattainable because of what I know.
The mystery of human destiny is that we are fated, but that we have the freedom to fulfill or not fulfill our fate: realization of our fated destiny depends on us. While inhuman beings like the cockroach realize the entire cycle without going astray because they make no choices.