What a piece of work is a man! How noble inreason, how infinite in faculty! In form and movinghow express and admirable! In action how like an Angel!in apprehension how like a god! The beauty of theworld! The paragon of animals! And yet to me, what isthis quintessence of dust? Man delights not me; no,nor… Continue reading William Shakespeare
He who learns must suffer And even in our sleep pain that cannot forget Falls drop by drop upon the heart, And in our own despite, against our will, Comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God. ― Aeschylus, The Orestei. 458 BCE
When he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with the night And pay no worship to the garish sun. — William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet: Act III, Scene ii
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day To the last syllable of recorded time, And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And… Continue reading William Shakespeare
ELEKTRA : Oh my love take me there. Let me dwell where you are. I am already nothing. I am already burning. — Sophocles, Electra. 410 B.C.E. (tr. by Anne Carson)
The world is not a wish-granting factory. — John Green, The Fault In Our Stars. (Dutton Books January 10, 2012)
Oh, Ophelia, if only there was someone out there who loved you. — William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act III Scene I
A man sees in the world what he carries in his heart. ― Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Faust: First Part, (Bantam Books; Reissue edition, August 1, 1988) Originally published 1808.
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep; No more; and, by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish’d. To… Continue reading William Shakespeare
The sleeping and the dead Are but as pictures: ‘tis the eye of childhood That fears a painted devil. — William Shakespeare, Macbeth Act II scene ii
