Aldric > Aldric's Quotes

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  • #1
    Albert Camus
    “My dear,
    In the midst of hate, I found there was, within me, an invincible love.
    In the midst of tears, I found there was, within me, an invincible smile.
    In the midst of chaos, I found there was, within me, an invincible calm.
    I realized, through it all, that…
    In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.
    And that makes me happy. For it says that no matter how hard the world pushes against me, within me, there’s something stronger – something better, pushing right back.

    Truly yours,
    Albert Camus”
    Albert Camus

  • #2
    Thomas Wolfe
    “A destiny that leads the English to the Dutch is strange enough; but one that leads from Epsom into Pennsylvania, and thence into the hills that shut in Altamont over the proud coral cry of the cock, and the soft stone smile of an angel, is touched by that dark miracle of chance which makes new magic in a dusty world.

    Each of us is all the sums he has not counted: subtract us into nakedness and night again, and you shall see begin in Crete four thousand years ago the love that ended yesterday in Texas.

    The seed of our destruction will blossom in the desert, the alexin of our cure grows by a mountain rock, and our lives are haunted by a Georgia slattern, because a London cutpurse went unhung. Each moment is the fruit of forty thousand years. The minute-winning days, like flies, buzz home to death, and every moment is a window on all time.

    This is a moment:”
    Thomas Wolfe, Look Homeward, Angel

  • #3
    Kahlil Gibran
    “And God said “Love Your Enemy,” and I obeyed him and loved myself.”
    Kahlil Gibran, The Broken Wings

  • #4
    Thomas Wolfe
    “His life coiled back into the brown murk of the past like a twined filament of electric wire; he gave life, a pattern, and movement to these million sensations that Chance, the loss or gain of a moment, the turn of the head, the enormous and aimless impulsion of accident, had thrust into the blazing heat of him. His mind picked out in white living brightness these pinpoints of experience and the ghostliness of all things else became more awful because of them. So many of the sensations that returned to open haunting vistas of fantasy and imagining had been caught from a whirling landscape through the windows of the train.

    And it was this that awed him — the weird combination of fixity and change, the terrible moment of immobility stamped with eternity in which, passing life at great speed, both the observer and the observed seem frozen in time. There was one moment of timeless suspension when the land did not move, the train did not move, the slattern in the doorway did not move, he did not move. It was as if God had lifted his baton sharply above the endless orchestration of the seas, and the eternal movement had stopped, suspended in the timeless architecture of the absolute. Or like those motion-pictures that describe the movements of a swimmer making a dive, or a horse taking a hedge — movement is petrified suddenly in mid-air, the inexorable completion of an act is arrested. Then, completing its parabola, the suspended body plops down into the pool. Only, these images that burnt in him existed without beginning or ending, without the essential structure of time. Fixed in no-time, the slattern vanished, fixed, without a moment of transition.

    His sense of unreality came from time and movement, from imagining the woman, when the train had passed, as walking back into the house, lifting a kettle from the hearth embers. Thus life turned shadow, the living lights went ghost again. The boy among the calves. Where later? Where now?

    I am, he thought, a part of all that I have touched and that has touched me, which, having for me no existence save that which I gave to it, became other than itself by being mixed with what I then was, and is now still otherwise, having fused with what I now am, which is itself a cumulation of what I have been becoming. Why here? Why there? Why now? Why then?

    The fusion of the two strong egotisms, Eliza’s inbrooding and Gant’s expanding outward, made of him a fanatical zealot in the religion of Chance. Beyond all misuse, waste, pain, tragedy, death, confusion, unswerving necessity was on the rails; not a sparrow fell through the air but that its repercussion acted on his life, and the lonely light that fell upon the viscous and interminable seas at dawn awoke sea-changes washing life to him. The fish swam upward from the depth.”
    Thomas Wolfe, Look Homeward, Angel

  • #5
    Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky
    “There is no doubt that even the greatest musical geniuses have sometimes worked without inspiration. This guest (inspiration) does not always respond to the first invitation. We must always work, and a self-respecting artist must not fold his hands on the pretext that he is not in the mood. If we wait for the mood, without endeavouring to meet it half-way, we easily become indolent and apathetic. We must be patient, and believe that inspiration will come to those who can master their disinclination.”
    Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky
    tags: music

  • #6
    Roland Barthes
    “I cannot write myself. What, after all, is this "I" who would write himself? Even as he would enter into the writing, the writing would take the wind out of his sails, would render him null and void -- futile; a gradual dilapidation would occur, in which the other's image, too, would be gradually involved (to write on something is to outmode it), a disgust whose conclusion could only be: what's the use? what obstructs amorous writing is the illusion of expressivity: as a writer, or assuming myself to be one, I continue to fool myself as to the effects of language: I do not know that the word "suffering" expresses no suffering and that, consequently, to use it is not only to communicate nothing but even, and immediately, to annoy, to irritate (not to mention the absurdity). Someone would have to teach me that one cannot write without burying "sincerity" (always the Orpheus myth: not to turn back). What writing demands, and what any lover cannot grant it without laceration, is to sacrifice a little of his Image-repertoire, and to assure thereby, through his language, the assumption of a little reality. All I might produce, at best, is a writing of the Image-repertoire; and for that I would have to renounce the Image-repertoire of writing -- would have to let myself be subjugated by my language, submit to the injustices (the insults) it will not fail to inflict upon the double Image of the lover and of his other.
    The language of the Image-repertoire would be precisely the utopia of language: an entirely original, paradisiac language, the language of Adam -- "natural, free of distortion or illusion, limpid mirror of our sense, a sensual language (die sensualische Sprache)": "In the sensual language, all minds converse together, they need no other language, for this is the language of nature.”
    Roland Barthes, A Lover's Discourse: Fragments

  • #7
    Roland Barthes
    “You see the first thing we love is a scene. For love at first sight requires the very sign of its suddenness; and of all things, it is the scene which seems to be seen best for the first time: a curtain parts and what had not yet ever been seen is devoured by the eyes: the scene consecrates the object I am going to love. The context is the constellation of elements, harmoniously arranged that encompass the experience of the amorous subject...

    Love at first sight is always spoken in the past tense. The scene is perfectly adapted to this temporal phenomenon: distinct, abrupt, framed, it is already a memory (the nature of a photograph is not to represent but to memorialize)... this scene has all the magnificence of an accident: I cannot get over having had this good fortune: to meet what matches my desire.

    The gesture of the amorous embrace seems to fulfill, for a time, the subject's dream of total union with the loved being: The longing for consummation with the other... In this moment, everything is suspended: time, law, prohibition: nothing is exhausted, nothing is wanted: all desires are abolished, for they seem definitively fulfilled... A moment of affirmation; for a certain time, though a finite one, a deranged interval, something has been successful: I have been fulfilled (all my desires abolished by the plenitude of their satisfaction).”
    Roland Barthes, A Lover's Discourse: Fragments

  • #8
    Rainer Maria Rilke
    “I live my life in widening circle
    That reach out across the world.
    I may not ever complete the last one,
    But I give myself to it.

    I circle around God, that primordial tower.
    I have been circling for thousands of years,
    And I still don't know: am I a falcon,
    A storm, or a great song? [I, 2]”
    Rainer Maria Rilke, Rilke's Book of Hours: Love Poems to God

  • #9
    “Something in transit is in love.”
    Sarah Gambito, Matadora
    tags: love

  • #10
    Marcel Proust
    “Let us be grateful to the people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.”
    Marcel Proust

  • #11
    Hannah Senesh
    “There are stars whose radiance is visible on Earth though they have long been extinct. There are people whose brilliance continues to light the world even though they are no longer among the living. These lights are particularly bright when the night is dark. They light the way for humankind.”
    Hannah Senesh

  • #12
    Annie Dillard
    “There is something you find interesting, for a reason hard to explain. It is hard to explain because you have never read it on any page; there you begin. You were made and set here to give voice to this, your own astonishment. “The most demanding part of living a lifetime as an artist is the strict discipline of forcing oneself to work steadfastly along the nerve of one’s own most intimate sensitivity.” Anne Truitt, the sculptor, said this. Thoreau said it another way: know your own bone. “Pursue, keep up with, circle round and round your life…. Know your own bone: gnaw at it, bury it, unearth it, and gnaw at it still.” Write”
    Annie Dillard, The Writing Life

  • #13
    Annie Dillard
    “One of the few things I know about writing is this: spend it all, shoot it, play it, lose it, all, right away, every time. Do not hoard what seems good for a later place in the book, or for another book; give it, give it all, give it now. The impulse to save something good for a better place later is the signal to spend it now. Something more will arise for later, something better. These things fill from behind, from beneath, like well water. Similarly, the impulse to keep to yourself what you have learned is not only shameful, it is destructive. Anything you do not give freely and abundantly becomes lost to you. You open your safe and find ashes. After”
    Annie Dillard, The Writing Life

  • #14
    Kahlil Gibran
    “Some of you say, “Joy is greater than sorrow,” and others say, “Nay, sorrow is the greater.”
    But I say unto you, they are inseparable.
    Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.”
    Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

  • #15
    Rumi
    “When I am with you, we stay up all night.
    When you're not here, I can't go to sleep.

    Praise God for these two insomnias!
    And the difference between them.

    The minute I heard my first love story
    I started looking for you, not knowing
    how blind that was.

    Lovers don't finally meet somewhere.
    They're in each other all along.

    We are the mirror as well as the face in it.
    We are tasting the taste this minute of eternity. We are pain
    and what cures pain, both. We are
    the sweet cold water and the jar that pours.

    I want to hold you close like a lute,
    so we can cry out with loving.

    You would rather throw stones at a mirror?
    I am your mirror, and here are the stones.”
    Rumi, The Essential Rumi

  • #16
    “He has achieved success who has lived well, laughed often, and loved much;
    Who has enjoyed the trust of pure women, the respect of intelligent men and the love of little children;
    Who has filled his niche and accomplished his task;
    Who has never lacked appreciation of Earth's beauty or failed to express it;
    Who has left the world better than he found it,
    Whether an improved poppy, a perfect poem, or a rescued soul;
    Who has always looked for the best in others and given them the best he had;
    Whose life was an inspiration;
    Whose memory a benediction.”
    Bessie Anderson Stanley, More Heart Throbs Volume Two in Prose and Verse Dear to the American People And by them contributed as a Supplement to the original $10,000 Prize Book HEART THROBS

  • #17
    Marilyn Hacker
    “When I was in love with her, with a lover’s tendency to mythify the beloved did I know her better than I do now, when we know our limits? Now”
    Marilyn Hacker, A Stranger's Mirror: New and Selected Poems 1994-2014

  • #18
    Shirley Jackson
    “Eleanor looked up, surprised; the little girl was sliding back in her chair, sullenly refusing her milk, while her father frowned and her brother giggled and her mother said calmly, 'She wants her cup of stars.'

    Indeed yes, Eleanor thought; indeed, so do I; a cup of stars, of course.

    'Her little cup,' the mother was explaining, smiling apologetically at the waitress, who was thunderstruck at the thought that the mill's good country milk was not rich enough for the little girl. 'It has stars in the bottom, and she always drinks her milk from it at home. She calls it her cup of stars because she can see the stars while she drinks her milk.' The waitress nodded, unconvinced, and the mother told the little girl, 'You'll have your milk from your cup of stars tonight when we get home. But just for now, just to be a very good little girl, will you take a little milk from this glass?'

    Don't do it, Eleanor told the little girl; insist on your cup of stars; once they have trapped you into being like everyone else you will never see your cup of stars again; don't do it; and the little girl glanced at her, and smiled a little subtle, dimpling, wholly comprehending smile, and shook her head stubbornly at the glass. Brave girl, Eleanor thought; wise, brave girl.”
    Shirley Jackson, The Haunting of Hill House



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