The path to survival was to never give up on the small things.
My purpose holds, To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars until I die.
His fame seemed to him a failure of perception on the part of others.
He was looking past Amy’s naked body, over the crescent line between her chest and hip, haloed with tiny hairs, to where, beyond the weathered French doors with their flaking white paint, the moonligh...
He thought of how the world organises its affairs so that civilisation every day commits crimes for which any individual would be imprisoned for life. And how people accept this either by ignoring it...
He reasoned that, as there was nothing he could do about his feelings, he must avoid acting on them.
Where is truth to be found
Death poem of Hyakka,
Virtue is virtue, and, like suffering, it is inexplicable, irreducible, unintelligible.
Ulysses’. No one reads him anymore. No one reads anything anymore. They think Browning is a gun.
Philopon helps me through this fever, Nakamura said, feeling
Nothing endures. Don’t you see, Bonox? That’s what Kipling meant. Not empires, not memories. We remember nothing. Maybe for a year or two. Maybe most of a life, if we live. Maybe. But then we will die...
Memory's only like justice, because it is another wrong idea that makes people feel right.
Maybe a lot of people never know love. The idea had never occurred to Dorrigo Evans. Maybe not. Maybe we just get given our faces, our lives, our fates, our happiness and unhappiness. Some get a lot,...
Love is public,... or it’s not love. Love is shared with others or it dies.
In trying to escape the fatality of memory, he discovered with an immense sadness that pursuing the past inevitably only leads to greater loss.
He understood that he shared certain features, habits and history with the war hero. But he was not him. He’d just had more success at living than at dying,
He just stared into the flames. 2 A happy man has no past, while an unhappy man has nothing else. In his old age Dorrigo Evans never knew if he had read this or had himself made it up. Made up, mixed...
He felt more soft raindrops, saw bright-red oil against the brown mud, heard his mother calling again, but it was unclear what she was saying, was she calling him home or was it the sea? There was a w...
From that woman on the beach, dusk pours out across the evening waves. ISSA