Moscow on the Hudson (Paul Mazursky, 1984)

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I am a worthless, miserable, useless man. Only a man equally miserable and suffering could love or esteem me now. Good God! How I loathe myself! How bitterly I hate my voice, my hands, my thoughts, these clothes, each step I take!
Anton Chekhov, Ivanoff

(Source: zopherus)

(Source: stylefeld, via shamefullyinspired)

I am aware of myself. And, of course, the only things that are aware of themselves and conscious of their individuality are irritated eyes, cut fingers, sore teeth. A healthy eye, finger, tooth might as well not even be there. Isn’t it clear that individual consciousness is just sickness?
Yevgeny Zamyatin, We

(Source: rabbitinthemoon)


Repast (Mikio Naruse, 1951)

Now, before I blow my brains out, I should like to point out that the most basic issue at the very center of this work is not biology, race, or technology; it is nihilism. Ultimately this is an experiment in nihilism. Every word, every thought, and every emotion come back to one core problem: life is meaningless. The experiment in nihilism is to seek out and expose every illusion and every myth, whatever it may lead, no matter what, even if it kills us.
Mitchell Heisman - Suicide note (via encyclopedicasshole)

The Thin Red Line / 1998 / Terrence Malick

(Source: perfectframes, via shamefullyinspired)

Though, after all, everyone does do that; people do pride themselves on their diseases, and I do, may be, more than anyone. We will not dispute it; my contention was absurd. But yet I am firmly persuaded that a great deal of consciousness, every sort of consciousness, in fact, is a disease. I stick to that. Let us leave that, too, for a minute. Tell me this: why does it happen that at the very, yes, at the very moments when I am most capable of feeling every refinement of all that is “sublime and beautiful,” as they used to say at one time, it would, as though of design, happen to me not only to feel but to do such ugly things, such that … Well, in short, actions that all, perhaps, commit; but which, as though purposely, occurred to me at the very time when I was most conscious that they ought not to be committed. The more conscious I was of goodness and of all that was “sublime and beautiful,” the more deeply I sank into my mire and the more ready I was to sink in it altogether. But the chief point was that all this was, as it were, not accidental in me, but as though it were bound to be so. It was as though it were my most normal condition, and not in the least disease or depravity, so that at last all desire in me to struggle against this depravity passed. It ended by my almost believing (perhaps actually believing) that this was perhaps my normal condition. But at first, in the beginning, what agonies I endured in that struggle! I did not believe it was the same with other people, and all my life I hid this fact about myself as a secret. I was ashamed (even now, perhaps, I am ashamed): I got to the point of feeling a sort of secret abnormal, despicable enjoyment in returning home to my corner on some disgusting Petersburg night, acutely conscious that that day I had committed a loathsome action again, that what was done could never be undone, and secretly, inwardly gnawing, gnawing at myself for it, tearing and consuming myself till at last the bitterness turned into a sort of shameful accursed sweetness, and at last—into positive real enjoyment! Yes, into enjoyment, into enjoyment! I insist upon that. I have spoken of this because I keep wanting to know for a fact whether other people feel such enjoyment? I will explain; the enjoyment was just from the too intense consciousness of one’s own degradation; it was from feeling oneself that one had reached the last barrier, that it was horrible, but that it could not be otherwise; that there was no escape for you; that you never could become a different man; that even if time and faith were still left you to change into something different you would most likely not wish to change; or if you did wish to, even then you would do nothing; because perhaps in reality there was nothing for you to change into.
Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes from the Underground


The cyclopædia; or, Universal dictionary of arts, sciences, and literature. ; By Rees, Abraham, 1743-1825 on Flickr.

Publication info London,Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme & Brown [etc.]1819.
Contributing Library:
University of California Libraries
BioDiv. Library

(via faerytalemalice)

The animals are much more content with mere existence than we are; the plants are wholly so; and man is so according to how dull and insensitive he is. The animal’s life consequently contains less suffering but also less pleasure than the human’s, the direct reason being that on the one hand it is free from care and anxiety and the torments that attend them, but on the other is without hope and therefore has no share in that anticipation of a happy future which, together with the enchanting products of the imagination which accompany it, is the source of most of our greatest joys and pleasures. The animal lacks both anxiety and hope because its consciousness is restricted to what is clearly evident and thus to the present moment: the animal is the present incarnate. But precisely because this is so it appears in one respect to be truly sagacious compared with us, namely in its peaceful, untroubled enjoyment of the present: its obvious composure often puts to shame our frequently restless and discontented condition.
Arthur Schopenhauer (On the Suffering of the World)

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(Source: Spotify)

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It will generally be found that where the terrors of life come to outweigh the terrors of death a man will put an end to his life. But the terrors of death offer considerable resistance: they stand like a sentinel at the exit gate. Perhaps there is no one alive who would not already have put an end to his life if this end were something purely negative, a sudden cessation of existence. But there is something positive in it as well: the destruction of the body. This is a deterrent, because the body is the phenomenal form of the will to live.
Arthur Schopenhauer

(Source: nefariouscinephile)


Suehiro Maruo


Suehiro Maruo

(via fatj2112-deactivated20140822)

Yo nací muerto, me repito sin parar. Todo el mundo está muerto, me respondo. Lo están todos, sostengo, pero algunos de ellos nunca llegan a saberlo como yo, y es una vergüenza que no haya llegado a saberlo hasta el final, cuando menos puedo hacer al respecto, y cuando es terriblemente tarde para sacar de ello nada salvo males.
Alan Sillitoe. (via entre-el-dolor-y-la-nada)
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