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We may lose and we may win though we will never be here again.
without language, or before language, the mind cannot comfort itself. And yet it is the language of our thoughts that tortures us more than any excess or deprivation of nature.
Byron is an atheist and does not believe in life after death. We are haunted by ourselves, he says, and that is enough for any man.
I deny that I must choose between my mind and my heart.
My mind is immortal – I feel it to be.
Oh, I am used to death and I hate it.
The light of science burns brightest in a blood-soaked wick.
Suffering, I do believe, is something of the mark of the soul.
in a sudden illumination of the way we live, forever wrecking the good we have for the little we have not. Or clutching at the little we have for the good that would be ours, if we dared …)
He who is so passionate about freedom is afraid of fate.
I know that I am intelligent because I know that I know nothing.
You know I am not born to tread in the beaten track – the peculiar bent of my nature pushes me on. Mary Wollstonecraft
Hope is a duty. Hope is our reality. Shelley says so and he believes it so, but for me the light has gone out. The light inside and the light outside. I have no lantern and no lighthouse. I am at sea in waves too high and the rocks wreck me.
I discover that grief means living with someone who is no longer there.
He would enjoy that; to be read back to life.
