I am more sensitive than other people. Things that other people would not notice awaken a distinct echo in me, and in such moments of lucidity, when I look at myself, I see that I am alone, all alone, all alone. — Henri Barbusse, THE INFERNO ** UNDER FIRE ** LIGHT (Timeless Wisdom Collection) Business… Continue reading Henri Barbusse
A sudden [b]reeze sweeps through the vacant lots, scattering leaves And cellophane, the miscellaneous detritus of a life. Like scraps of paper carried by the breeze from home To here, and then a figure walking towards me Across an open field, coming from the vast distance Things tend towards, they come at last to me:… Continue reading John Koethe
Eternally inexorable and unconcerned is Fate, a mere heartless trader in men’s joys and woes. — Herman Melville, Pierre: or, the Ambiguities. (Harper; First Edition edition, November 16, 1995) Originally published 1852.
And every moment is a new and shocking Valuation of all we have been. We are only undeceived Of that which, deceiving, could no longer harm. — T. S. Eliot, from “East Coker” of the “Four Quartets,” The Complete Poems & Plays of T.S.Eliot (Faber & Faber Poetry, 2004)
And what is the most terrible thing about boredom? Why do we rush to dispel it? Because it is a distraction-free state which soon enough reveals underlying unpalatable truths about existence—our insignificance, our meaningless existence, our inexorable progression to deterioration and death. — Irvin Yalom, The Schopenhauer Cure. (Harper Perennial; Reprint edition, January 3, 2006)… Continue reading Irvin Yalom
You gather things to you like an old road. You are peopled with echoes and nostalgic voices. I awoke and at times birds fled and migrated that had been sleeping in your soul. —Pablo Neruda, from “Your Breast Is Enough,” Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair. Translated by W. S. Merwin. (Penguin Classics;… Continue reading Pablo Neruda
We perceive first the anomaly of sheer existence, and only afterward that of our specific situation: the surprise of being precedes the surprise of being human. Yet the strange character of our state should constitute the primordial datum of our perplexities: it is less natural to be man than, simply, to be. We feel this… Continue reading Emil Cioran