(via heavyheartedlady)


Death is the road to awe

(via shamefullyinspired)

Everywhere I have been in my life, in every situation, wherever I’ve lived and worked alongside people, I’ve always been considered by everyone to be an intruder or, at the least, a stranger. Amongst my relatives as amongst acquaintances, I’ve always been considered an outsider. Not that even once have I been treated like that consciously, but the spontaneous response of others to me ensured that I was.

Everyone everywhere has always treated me kindly. Very few people, I think, have had so few raise their voice against them, or been so little frowned at, so infrequently the object of someone else’s arrogance or irritability. But the kindness with which I was treated was always devoid of affection. For those who would naturally be closest to me, I was always a guest who, as such, was well treated but only with the attentiveness due to a stranger and the lack of affection which is the lot of the intruder.

I’m sure that all this, I mean other people’s attitudes towards me, lies principally in some obscure intrinsic flaw in my own temperament. Perhaps I communicate a coldness that unwittingly obliges others to reflect back my own lack of feeling.

I get to know people quickly. It doesn’t take long for people to grow to like me. But I never gain their affection. I’ve never experienced devotion. To be loved has always seemed to me an impossibility, as unlikely as a complete stranger suddenly addressing me as familiarly as ‘tu’.

I don’t know if this makes me suffer or if I simply accept it as my indifferent fate, and to which questions of suffering or acceptance do not enter.

I always wanted to please. It always hurt me that people should be indifferent towards me. As an orphan of Fortune I have, like all orphans, a need to be the object of someone’s affection. I’ve always been starved of the realization of that need. I’ve grown so accustomed to this vain hunger that, at times, I’m not even sure I still feel the need to eat.

With or without it life still hurts me.

Others have someone who is devoted to them. I’ve never had anyone who even considered devoting themselves to me. That is for others: me, they just treat decently.

I recognize in myself the capacity to arouse respect but not affection. Unfortunately I’ve done nothing that in itself justifies that initial respect and so no one has ever managed fully to respect me either.

I sometimes think that I enjoy suffering. But the truth is I would prefer something else.

I don’t have the right qualities to be either leader or follower. I don’t even have the merit of being contented which, if all else fails, is all that remains.

Other people of lesser intelligence are in fact much stronger than me. They are better than I am at carving out their lives amongst other people, more skilled at administering their intelligence. I have all the necessary qualities to influence others but not the art with which to do so, nor even the will to want to do so.

If one day I were to love someone, I would not be loved in return.

It’s enough for me to want something for that thing to die. My destiny, however, is not powerful enough to prove deadly to just anything. It has the unfortunate disadvantage of being deadly only to those things I want.

Fernando Pessoa — from The Book of Disquiet trans. Richard Zenith

(Source: slothnorentropy)

(Source: scarewell, via ethoslogos-pathos)

The trouble is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only evil interesting. This is the treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain. If you can’t lick ‘em, join ‘em. If it hurts, repeat it. But to praise despair is to condemn delight, to embrace violence is to lose hold of everything else. We have almost lost hold, we can no longer describe a happy man, nor make any celebration of joy.
Ursula K. Le Guin, The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas

(Source: literaryinclination)

(Source: grawlyx666, via shamefullyinspired)

¿Cuántas veces he sido un dictador? ¿Cuántas veces un inquisidor; un censor, un carcelero? ¿Cuántas veces he prohibido, a quienes más quería, la libertad y la palabra? ¿De cuántas personas me he sentido dueño? ¿A cuántas he condenado porque cometieron el delito de no ser yo? ¿No es la propiedad privada de las personas más repugnante que la propiedad de las cosas? ¿A cuánta gente usé, yo que me creía tan al margen de la sociedad de consumo? ¿No he deseado o celebrado, secretamente, la derrota de otros, yo que en voz alta me cagaba en el valor del éxito? ¿Quién no reproduce, dentro de sí, al mundo que lo genera? ¿Quién está a salvo de confundir a su hermano con un rival y a la mujer que ama con la propia sombra?
Eduardo Galeano, Días y noches de amor y de guerra

(Source: littrature, via dystopica)


Rubens. Detail from Moses and the Brazen Serpent, 1610.


Rubens. Detail from Moses and the Brazen Serpent, 1610.

(via shamefullyinspired)

The universe is a solitary place, and all its creatures do nothing but reinforce in solitude. In it, I have never met anyone, I have only stumbled across ghosts.
Emil Cioran, Tears and Saints

(Source: nemophilies)

(Source: hendel, via ethoslogos-pathos)

In a morbid condition of the brain, dreams often have a singular actuality, vividness and extraordinary semblance of reality. At times monstrous images are created, but the setting and the whole picture are so truthlike and filled with details so delicate, so unexpected, but so artistically consistent that the dreamer, were he an artist like Pushkin or Turgenev even, could never have invented them in the waking state. Such sick dreams always remain in the memory and make a powerful impression on the overwrought and deranged nervous system.
Fyodor Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment (via deconstructionandcriticism)

(Source: days-of-reading)


1968 | 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY | Stanley Kubrick

(via asilentscreamingmoon)

Yet even so there is but one world and everything that is imaginable is necessary to it. For this world also which seems to us a thing of stone and flower and blood is not a thing at all but is a tale. And all in it is a tale and each tale the sum of all lesser tales and yet these also are the selfsame tale and contain as well all else within them. So everything is necessary. Every least thing. This is the hard lesson. Nothing can be dispensed with. Nothing despised. Because the seams are hid from us, you see. The joinery. The way in which the world is made. We have no way to know what could be taken away. What omitted. We have no way to tell what might stand and what might fall. And those seams that are hid from us are of course in the tale itself and the tale has no abode or place of being except in the telling only and there it lives and makes its home and therefore we can be done with the telling.
Cormac McCarthy, from The Crossing (via cuttyspot)

(Source: theseinfeldshow, via zaudade)

I’ve never been lonely. I’ve been in a room — I’ve felt suicidal. I’ve been depressed. I’ve felt awful — awful beyond all — but I never felt that one other person could enter that room and cure what was bothering me… or that any number of people could enter that room. In other words, loneliness is something I’ve never been bothered with because I’ve always had this terrible itch for solitude. It’s being at a party, or at a stadium full of people cheering for something, that I might feel loneliness. I’ll quote Ibsen, “The strongest men are the most alone.” I’ve never thought, “Well, some beautiful blonde will come in here and give me a fuck-job, rub my balls, and I’ll feel good.” No, that won’t help. You know the typical crowd, “Wow, it’s Friday night, what are you going to do? Just sit there?” Well, yeah. Because there’s nothing out there. It’s stupidity. Stupid people mingling with stupid people. Let them stupidify themselves. I’ve never been bothered with the need to rush out into the night. I hid in bars, because I didn’t want to hide in factories. That’s all. Sorry for all the millions, but I’ve never been lonely. I like myself. I’m the best form of entertainment I have. Let’s drink more wine!
Charles Bukowski,

(Source: kushandwizdom, via jadummesweibchen)

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