For the point is this: not that myth refers us back to some original event which has been fancifully transcribed as it passed through collective memory; but that it refers us forward to something that...
For instance: that when we are young and sensitive, we are also at our most hurtful; whereas when the blood begins to slow, when we feel less sharply, when we are more armoured and have learnt how to...
Every love story is a potential grief story. If not at first, then later. If not for one, then for the other. Sometimes for both.
Arthur was frequently baffled by the complacency with which people went on with what they insouciantly called their lives, as if both the word and the thing made perfect sense to them.
زمان در حکم تثبیتکننده عمل نمیکند بلکه بیشتر حالت حلال دارد.
Я хочу встретить такого мужчину, который, когда узнаешь его получше, будет таким же, каким кажется, когда вы только познакомились. Я хочу встретить такого мужчину, который звонит, если пообещал позвон...
Pustular berk with the charisma of a plimsole
What happiness is there in just the memory of happiness?
The writer has little control over personal temperament, none over historical moment, and is only partly in charge of his or her own aesthetic.
The best form of government is one that is dying, because that means it’s giving way to something else.
Tai, ką galiausiai prisimeni, ne visada yra tas pats, ką patyrei
Samo oni koji vide šta će se dogoditi prežive, mora da je to pravilo.
Our parents thought we might be corrupted by one another into becoming whatever it was they most feared: an incorrigible masturbator, a winsome homosexual, a recklessly impregnatory libertine. On our...
May you be ordinary, as the poet once wished the newborn baby.
Loving humanity means as much, and as little, as loving raindrops, or loving the Milky Way. You say that you love humanity? Are you sure you aren’t treating yourself to easy self-congratulation, seeki...
In the letter he left for the coroner he had explained his reasoning (for suicide): that life is a gift bestowed without anyone asking for it; that the thinking person has a philosophical duty to exam...
If the writer were more like a reader, he’d be a reader, not a writer. It’s as uncomplicated as that.
He didn’t really like travel, of course. He liked the idea of travel, and the memory of travel, but not travel itself.
Every day is Sunday—that wouldn’t make a bad epitaph, would it?
Constantly he went back over the evidence of his memories.