A good book...leaves you wanting to reread the book. A great book compels you to reread your own soul.
Ვინ იტყვის, რა არის ზედ ასახული? ერთმა შეიძლება ისინი აღიქვას მონობის მტკიცებად, მეორემ - პროპაგანდად. განა იეროგლიფები გვეუბნებიან რამეს იმის შესახებ, თუ როგორი იყო მონის ცხოვრება შოლტის ქვეშ პირამიდ...
Possibly
Panegyrics of a man they had never understood,
Definitions belong to the definer, not the defined, & I no longer wished to have my life & death foretold by others. I had endured too much to be reduced to an idea. Onto that pyre I threw so many, ma...
To control the deaths of others - when, where, the craft of ensuring it was a cleanly sliced ending - that was possible. And in some strange way, such killing felt like controlling whatever remained o...
Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Suffering is not virtue, nor does it make virtue, nor does of it virtue necessarily flow.
Speedo, when they worked us seventy days and
People kept on longing for meaning and hope, but the annals of the past are a muddy story of chaos only.
On his death bed, the eighteenth-century haiku poet Shisui had finally responded to requests for a death poem by grabbing his brush, painting his poem, and dying. On the paper Shisui’s shocked followe...
No, Colonel Kota replied, stepping backwards and flipping open his Kuomintang cigarette case to proffer another cigarette
My only idea ever, Dorrigo had confessed, is to advance forward and charge the windmill. Taylor had laughed, but Dorrigo had meant it. It’s only our faith in illusions that makes life possible, Squizz...
Life was a bit about luck. Mostly though, it was a stacked deck. Life was only about getting the next footstep right.
It's like life, isn't it? You think you'll outrun it, that you're better than it, but it makes a fool of you every time. It runs you into the ground and steams off whistling away, happy as buggery wit...
He would live to see people praised for things that were not worthy of praise, simply because truth was seen to be bad for their feelings.
He read and reread ‘Ulysses’. The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, ’Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
He pulled out a book here and there, but what kept catching his attention were the diagonal tunnels of sunlight rolling in through the dormer windows. All around him dust motes rose and fell, shimmeri...
He could never admit to himself that it was death that had given his life meaning.
Fuck God, he had actually wanted to say. Fuck God for having made this world, fucked be His name, now and for fucking ever, fuck God for our lives, fuck God for not saving us, fuck God for not fucking...