Our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves, and of our visible, sensible world.
Everyone's alone - or so it seems to me. They make noises, and think they are talking to each other; They make faces, and think they understand each other. And I'm sure they don't. Is that a delusion?
One of the surest tests of the superiority or inferiority of a poet is the way in which a poet borrows. Immature poets imitate mature poets steal bad poets deface what they take and good poets make it into something better or at least something different. The good poet welds his theft into a whole of feeling which is unique utterly different than that from which it is torn the bad poet throws it into something which has no cohesion. A good poet will usually borrow from authors remote in time or alien in language or diverse in interest.
But it seems that something has happened that has never happened before: though we know not just when, or why, or how, or where.
What is this self-inside us, this silent observer, severe and speechless critic, who can terrorize us, and urge us onto futile activity, and in the end, judge us still more severely for the errors into which his own reproaches drove us?
It is impossible to design a system so perfect that no one needs to be good.
The young feel tired at the end of an action, the old at the beginning.
I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you Which shall be the darkness of God. . . . So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
What we know of other people's only our memory of the moments during which we knew them.
A thousand policemen directing traffic cannot tell you why you come or where you go.
life is long between the desire and the spasm.
Love compels cruelty To those who do not understand love.
Between the desire And the spasm, Between the potency And the existence, Between the essence And the descent, Falls the Shadow.
We must always take risks. That is our destiny.
What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from.
We had the experience but missed the meaning. And approach to the meaning restores the experience in a different form.
Artistic inevitability lies in the complete adequacy of the external to the emotion.
One thing you cannot know: The sudden extinction of every alternative, The unexpected crash of the iron cataract. You do not know what hope is, until you have lost it. You only know what it is not to hope: You do not know what it is to have hope taken from you Or to fling it away, to join the legion of the hopeless Unrecognized by other men, though sometimes by each other.
Not less of love, but expanding Of love beyond desire, and so liberation From the Future as well as the past.
We can at least try to understand our own motives, passions, and prejudices, so as to be conscious of what we are doing when we apeal to those of others. This is very difficult, because our own prejudice and emotional bias always seems to us so rational.
I must tell you that I should really like to think there's something wrong with me- Because, if there isn't, then there's something wrong with the world itself-and that's much more frightening! That would be terrible. So I'd rather believe there is something wrong with me, that could be put right.
Time past and time future allow but a little consciousness. To be conscious is not to be in time.
All time is unreedemable.
Where does one go from a world of insanity? Somewhere on the other side of despair.
We are being made aware that the organization of society on the principle of private profit, as well as public destruction, is leading both to the deformation of humanity by unregulated industrialism, and to the exhaustion of natural resources, and that a good deal of our material progress is a progress for which succeeding generations may have to pay dearly.
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