Bianca > Bianca's Quotes

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  • #1
    Albert Einstein
    “To dwell on the things that depress or anger us does not help in overcoming them. One must knock them down alone.”
    Albert Einstein

  • #2
    Émile Durkheim
    “Melancholy suicide. —This is connected with a general state of extreme depression and exaggerated sadness, causing the patient no longer to realize sanely the bonds which connect him with people and things about him. Pleasures no longer attract;”
    Émile Durkheim, On Suicide: A Study in Sociology

  • #3
    Edgar Allan Poe
    “I have absolutely no pleasure in the stimulants in which I sometimes so madly indulge. It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have periled life and reputation and reason. It has been the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness and a dread of some strange impending doom.”
    Edgar Allan Poe

  • #4
    Edgar Allan Poe

    Hear the sledges with the bells -
    Silver bells!
    What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
    How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
    In the icy air of night!
    While the stars that oversprinkle
    All the heavens, seem to twinkle
    With a crystalline delight;
    Keeping time, time, time,
    In a sort of Runic rhyme,
    To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
    From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
    Bells, bells, bells -
    From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.


    Hear the mellow wedding bells -
    Golden bells!
    What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
    Through the balmy air of night
    How they ring out their delight! -
    From the molten - golden notes,
    And all in tune,
    What a liquid ditty floats
    To the turtle - dove that listens, while she gloats
    On the moon!
    Oh, from out the sounding cells,
    What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
    How it swells!
    How it dwells
    On the Future! - how it tells
    Of the rapture that impels
    To the swinging and the ringing
    Of the bells, bells, bells -
    Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
    Bells, bells, bells -
    To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!


    Hear the loud alarum bells -
    Brazen bells!
    What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
    In the startled ear of night
    How they scream out their affright!
    Too much horrified to speak,
    They can only shriek, shriek,
    Out of tune,
    In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
    In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
    Leaping higher, higher, higher,
    With a desperate desire,
    And a resolute endeavor
    Now - now to sit, or never,
    By the side of the pale - faced moon.
    Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
    What a tale their terror tells
    Of Despair!
    How they clang, and clash and roar!
    What a horror they outpour
    On the bosom of the palpitating air!
    Yet the ear, it fully knows,
    By the twanging,
    And the clanging,
    How the danger ebbs and flows;
    Yet the ear distinctly tells,
    In the jangling,
    And the wrangling,
    How the danger sinks and swells,
    By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells -
    Of the bells -
    Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
    Bells, bells, bells -
    In the clamor and the clanging of the bells!


    Hear the tolling of the bells -
    Iron bells!
    What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
    In the silence of the night,
    How we shiver with affright
    At the melancholy menace of their tone!
    For every sound that floats
    From the rust within their throats
    Is a groan.
    And the people - ah, the people -
    They that dwell up in the steeple,
    All alone,
    And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
    In that muffled monotone,
    Feel a glory in so rolling
    On the human heart a stone -
    They are neither man nor woman -
    They are neither brute nor human -
    They are Ghouls: -
    And their king it is who tolls: -
    And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
    A paean from the bells!
    And his merry bosom swells
    With the paean of the bells!
    And he dances, and he yells;
    Keeping time, time, time,
    In a sort of Runic rhyme,
    To the paean of the bells: -
    Of the bells:
    Keeping time, time, time
    In a sort of Runic rhyme,
    To the throbbing of the bells -
    Of the bells, bells, bells: -
    To the sobbing of the bells: -
    Keeping time, time, time,
    As he knells, knells, knells,
    In a happy Runic rhyme,
    To the rolling of the bells -
    Of the bells, bells, bells -
    To the tolling of the bells -
    Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
    Bells, bells, bells, -
    To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. ”
    Edgar Allan Poe

  • #5
    Oscar Wilde
    “The gods are strange. It is not our vices only they make instruments to scourge us. They bring us to ruin through what in us is good, gentle, humane, loving.”
    Oscar Wilde, De Profundis

  • #6
    Charles Baudelaire

    by: Charles Baudelaire

    UNDER the overhanging yews,
    The dark owls sit in solemn state,
    Like stranger gods; by twos and twos
    Their red eyes gleam. They meditate.

    Motionless thus they sit and dream
    Until that melancholy hour
    When, with the sun's last fading gleam,
    The nightly shades assume their power.

    From their still attitude the wise
    Will learn with terror to despise
    All tumult, movement, and unrest;

    For he who follows every shade,
    Carries the memory in his breast,
    Of each unhappy journey made.
    'The Owls' is reprinted from The Poems and Prose Poems of Charles Baudelaire. Ed. James Huneker. New York: Brentano's, 1919.”
    Charles Baudelaire

  • #7
    Edgar Allan Poe
    “...that fitful strain of melancholy which will ever be found inseperable from the perfection of the beautiful.”
    Edgar Allan Poe, The Works of Edgar Allen Poe Volume 4

  • #8
    Edgar Allan Poe
    “And so being young and dipped in folly I fell in love with melancholy.”
    Edgar Allan Poe

  • #9
    Charles Nodier
    “Such days of autumnal decline hold a strange mystery which adds to the gravity of all our moods.”
    Charles Nodier, Smarra & Trilby

  • #10
    Oscar Wilde
    “The world has become sad because a puppet was once melancholy. The nihilist, that strange martyr who has no faith, who goes to the stake without enthusiasm, and dies for what he does not believe in, is a purely literary product. He was invented by Turgenev, and completed by Dostoevsky. Robespierre came out of the pages of Rousseau as surely as the People's Palace rose out debris of a novel. Literature always anticipates life. It does not copy it, but moulds it to its purpose.”
    Oscar Wilde

  • #11
    Edgar Allan Poe
    “To muse for long unwearied hours with my attention riveted to some frivolous device upon the margin, or in the typography of a book — to become absorbed for the better part of a summer's day in a quaint shadow falling aslant upon the tapestry, or upon the floor — to lose myself for an entire night in watching the steady flame of a lamp, or the embers of a fire — to dream away whole days over the perfume of a flower — to repeat monotonously some common word, until the sound, by dint of frequent repetition, ceased to convey any idea whatever to the mind — to lose all sense of motion or physical existence in a state of absolute bodily quiescence long and obstinately persevered in — Such were a few of the most common and least pernicious vagaries induced by a condition of the mental faculties, not, indeed, altogether unparalleled, but certainly bidding defiance to any thing like analysis or explanation.”
    Edgar Allan Poe, Berenice

  • #12
    William Shakespeare
    “Night's candles have burned out, and jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountaintops." Hope tinged with melancholy - like life.”
    William Shakespeare

  • #13
    Timo K. Mukka
    “Voi rakkaani
    sydän on kylmä
    ja sammalta käteni kasvaa
    Minun reiteni mullassa hajoovat maaksi
    Ja haudalla risti jo lahona on.
    Olen maa.
    Olen maa johon tahdot.”
    Timo K. Mukka

  • #14
    Oscar Wilde
    “And so he would now study perfumes, and the secrets of their manufacture, distilling heavily-scented oils, and burning odorous gums from the East. He saw that there was no mood of the mind that had not its counterpart in the sensuous life, and set himself to discover their true relations, wondering what there was in frankincense that made one mystical, and in ambergris that stirred one’s passions, and in violets that woke the memory of dead romances, and in musk that troubled the brain, and in champak that stained the imagination;
    and seeking often to elaborate a real psychology of perfumes, and to estimate the several influences of sweet-smelling roots, and scented pollen-laden flower, of aromatic balms, and of dark and fragrant woods, of spikenard that sickens, of hovenia that makes men mad, and of aloes that are said to be able to expel melancholy from the soul.”
    Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

  • #15
    Edgar Allan Poe
    “During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher. I know not how it was--but, with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable; for the feeling was unrelieved by any of that half-pleasureable, because poetic, sentiment, with which the mind usually receives even the sternest natural images of the desolate or terrible. I looked upon the scene before me--upon the mere house, and the simple landscape features of the domain--upon the bleak walls--upon the vacant eye-like windows--upon a few rank sedges--and upon a few white trunks of decayed trees--with an utter depression of soul which I can compare to no earthly sensation more properly than to the after-dream of the reveller upon opium--the bitter lapse into everyday life--the hideous dropping off of the veil. There was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart--an unredeemed dreariness of thought which no goading of the imagination could torture into aught of the sublime.”
    Edgar Allan Poe, The Fall of the House of Usher and Other Tales

  • #16
    J.M. Barrie
    “Two small figures were beating against the rock; the girl had fainted and lay on the the boy's arm. With a last effort Peter pulled her up the rock and then lay down beside her. Even as he also fainted he saw that the water was raising, He knew that they would soon be drowned, but he could do no more.
    As they lay side by side a mermaid caught Wendy by the feet, and began pulling her softly into the water. Peter feeling her slip from him, woke with a start, and was just in time to draw her back. But he had to tell her the truth.
    "We are on the rock, Wendy," he said, "but it is growing smaller. Soon the water will be over it."
    She did not understand even now.
    "We must go," she said, almost brightly.
    "Yes," he answered faintly.
    "Shall we swim or fly, Peter?"
    He had to tell her.
    "Do you think you could swim or fly as far as the island, Wendy, without my help?"
    She had to admit she was too tired.
    He moaned.
    "What is it?" she asked, anxious about him at once.
    "I can't help you, Wendy. Hook wounded me. I can neither fly nor swim."
    "Do you mean we shall both be downed?"
    "Look how the water is raising."
    They put their hands over their eyes to shut out the sight. They thought they would soon be no more. As they sat thus something brushed against Peter as light as a kiss, and stayed there, as if to say timidly, "Can I be of any us?" It was the tail of a kite, which Michael had made some days before. It had torn itself out of his hand and floated away.
    "Michael's kite," Peter said without interest, but the next moment he had seized the tail, and was pulling the kite towards him.
    "It lifted Michael off the ground," he cried; "why should it not carry you?"
    "Both of us!"
    "It can't left two; Michael and Curly tried."
    "Let us draw lots," Wendy said bravely.
    "And you a lady; never." Already he had tied the tail round her. She clung to him; she refused to go without him; but with a "Good-bye, Wendy." he pushed her from the rock; and in a few minutes she was borne out of his sight. Peter was alone on the lagoon.
    The rock was very small now; soon it would be submerged. Pale rays of light tiptoed across the waters; and by and by there was to be heard a sound at once the most musical and the most melancholy in the world: the mermaids calling to the moon.”
    J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

  • #17
    Oscar Wilde
    “The heart was made to be broken.”
    Oscar Wilde

  • #18
    Oscar Wilde
    “Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace.”
    Oscar Wilde, The Canterville Ghost

  • #19
    Oscar Wilde
    “A cynic is a man who knows the price of everything, and the value of nothing.”
    Oscar Wilde

  • #20
    Oscar Wilde
    “Some cause happiness wherever they go; others whenever they go.”
    Oscar Wilde

  • #21
    “Silence is a true friend who never betrays.”

  • #22
    Hotaru Odagiri
    “In this totally dark world, you can't live unless you're needed by someone.”
    Hotaru Odagiri

  • #23
    Edgar Allan Poe
    “It was many and many a year ago,
    In a kingdom by the sea,
    That a maiden there lived whom you may know
    By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
    And this maiden she lived with no other thought
    Than to love and be loved by me.

    I was a child and she was a child,
    In this kingdom by the sea;
    But we loved with a love that was more than love-
    I and my Annabel Lee;
    With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
    Coveted her and me.

    And this was the reason that, long ago,
    In this kingdom by the sea,
    A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
    My beautiful Annabel Lee;
    So that her highborn kinsman came
    And bore her away from me,
    To shut her up in a sepulchre
    In this kingdom by the sea.

    The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
    Went envying her and me-
    Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
    In this kingdom by the sea)
    That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
    Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

    But our love it was stronger by far than the love
    Of those who were older than we-
    Of many far wiser than we-
    And neither the angels in heaven above,
    Nor the demons down under the sea,
    Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

    For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
    And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
    And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
    Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
    In the sepulchre there by the sea,
    In her tomb by the sounding sea.”
    Edgar Allan Poe

  • #24
    Edgar Allan Poe
    “The true genius shudders at incompleteness — imperfection — and usually prefers silence to saying the something which is not everything that should be said.”
    Edgar Allan Poe, Marginalia

  • #25
    Oscar Wilde
    “Nowadays people know the price of everything and the value of nothing.”
    Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

  • #26
    H.L. Mencken
    “A cynic is a man who, when he smells flowers, looks around for a coffin.”
    H.L. Mencken

  • #27
    Friedrich Nietzsche
    “Cynicism is the only form in which base souls approach honesty.”
    Friedrich Nietzsche

  • #30
    Edgar Allan Poe
    “Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
    Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore —
    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
    As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.”
    Edgar Allan Poe, Edgar Allan Poe: Selected Poems

  • #31
    Edgar Allan Poe
    “In one case out of a hundred a point is excessively discussed because it is obscure; in the ninety-nine remaining it is obscure because it is excessively discussed.”
    Edgar Allan Poe

  • #32
    Oscar Wilde
    “The truth is rarely pure and never simple.”
    Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest

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