Spleen Quotes

“Anger gets you into trouble, ego keeps you in trouble.”
― Amit Kalantri, Wealth of Words

“After having struggled madly to solve all problems, after having suffered on the heights of despair, in the supreme hour of revelation, you will find that the only answer, the only reality, is silence.”
― Emil M. Cioran, On the Heights of Despair

“I am happy the leaves are growing large so quickly. Soon they will hide the neighbor and her screaming child.”
― Lydia Davis, Samuel Johnson Is Indignant

“The first thing they do to you when you go into New-Path," Charles Freck said, "is they cut off your pecker. As an object lesson. And then they fan out in all directions from there."

"Your spleen next," Barris said.

"They what, they cut -- What does that do, a spleen?"

"Helps you digest your food."

"How?"

"By removing the cellulose from it."

"Then I guess after that --"

"Just noncellulose foods. No leaves or alfalfa."

"How long can you live that way?"

Barris said, "It depends on your attitude."

"How many spleens does the average person have?" He knew there usually were two kidneys.

"Depends on his weight and age."

"Why?" Charles Freck felt keen suspicion.

"A person grows more spleens over the years. By the time he's eighty --"

"You're shitting me.”
― Philip K. Dick, A Scanner Darkly

“The spleen is what the English call it,
We call it simply Russian soul.”
― Ivan Turgenev, On the Eve

“Ultimately the judge threw Moore’s suit out of court, saying he had no case. Ironically, in his decision, the judge cited the HeLa cell line as a precedent for what happened with the Mo cell line. The fact that no one had sued over the growth or ownership of the HeLa cell line, he said, illustrated that patients didn’t mind when doctors took their cells and turned them into commercial products. The judge believed Moore was unusual in his objections. But in fact, he was simply the first to realize there was something potentially objectionable going on.”
― Rebecca Skloot

“Il a le mal d'un siècle qui n'est pas le sien ;
Il se sent l'héritier amer d'un spleen ancien.”
― Clémentine Beauvais, Songe à la douceur

“Spleen

Je suis comme le roi d'un pays pluvieux,
Riche, mais impuissant, jeune et pourtant très vieux,
Qui, de ses précepteurs méprisant les courbettes,
S'ennuie avec ses chiens comme avec d'autres bêtes.
Rien ne peut l'égayer, ni gibier, ni faucon,
Ni son peuple mourant en face du balcon.
Du bouffon favori la grotesque ballade
Ne distrait plus le front de ce cruel malade;
Son lit fleurdelisé se transforme en tombeau,
Et les dames d'atour, pour qui tout prince est beau,
Ne savent plus trouver d'impudique toilette
Pour tirer un souris de ce jeune squelette.
Le savant qui lui fait de l'or n'a jamais pu
De son être extirper l'élément corrompu,
Et dans ces bains de sang qui des Romains nous viennent,
Et dont sur leurs vieux jours les puissants se souviennent,
II n'a su réchauffer ce cadavre hébété
Où coule au lieu de sang l'eau verte du Léthé

//

I'm like the king of a rain-country, rich
but sterile, young but with an old wolf's itch,
one who escapes his tutor's monologues,
and kills the day in boredom with his dogs;
nothing cheers him, darts, tennis, falconry,
his people dying by the balcony;
the bawdry of the pet hermaphrodite
no longer gets him through a single night;
his bed of fleur-de-lys becomes a tomb;
even the ladies of the court, for whom
all kings are beautiful, cannot put on
shameful enough dresses for this skeleton;
the scholar who makes his gold cannot invent
washes to cleanse the poisoned element;
even in baths of blood, Rome's legacy,
our tyrants' solace in senility,
he cannot warm up his shot corpse, whose food
is syrup-green Lethean ooze, not blood.

— Robert Lowell, from Marthiel & Jackson Matthews, eds., The Flowers of Evil (NY: New Directions, 1963)”
― Charles Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du Mal

“A cada minuto nos sentimos aplastados por la idea y la sensación del tiempo. Y no hay más que dos recursos para escapar a esa pesadilla, para olvidarla: el placer y el trabajo. El placer nos gasta. El trabajo nos fortifica. Elijamos”
― Charles Baudelaire, My Heart Laid Bare

“The _spleen_ is what the English call it,
We call it simply _Russian soul_.”
― Ivan Turgenev, On the Eve

“Parfois, quand la symphonie de la ville frappe à ma porte au petit matin, je descends dans la rue et me mets en chemin, enveloppé dans mon manteau noir, le long des avenues bondées de la rive droite. Ce sont ces sombres jours d’hiver où le spleen de Paris tourmente les âmes et incite les esprits libres à une longue dérive sans but ni destination.”
― Federico Castigliano

“Sunday: this satisfied procession
Of definite Sunday faces;
Bonnets, silk hats, and conscious graces
In repetition that displaces
Your mental self-possession
By this unwarranted digression.
Evening, lights, and tea!
Children and cats in the alley;
Dejection unable to rally
Against this dull conspiracy.
And Life, a little bald and gray,
Languid, fastidious, and bland,
Waits, hat and gloves in hand,
Punctilious of tie and suit
(Somewhat impatient of delay)
On the doorstep of the Absolute.”
― T.S. Eliot

“Mrs Maclintick's dissatisfaction with life had probably reached so advanced a stage that she was unable to approach any new event amiably, even when proffered temporary alleviation of her own chronic spleen.”
― Anthony Powell, A Dance to the Music of Time: 2nd Movement

“Hay que estar siempre ebrio. Nada más: ése es todo el asunto. Para no sentir el horrible peso del Tiempo que os fatiga la espalda y os inclina hacia la tierra, tenéis que embriagaros sin tregua. Pero, ¿de qué? De vino, de poesía o de virtud, como queráis. Pero embriagaos.”
― Charles Baudelaire, Paris Spleen

“Must I observe you? Must I stand
& crouch
Under your testy humour?
By the gods,
You shall digest the venom of
your spleen,
Though it do split you, for, from this
day forth, I'll use you for my mirth, yea,
for my laughter, when you are waspish.”
― William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar

“Certains lundis de la toute fin novembre, ou du début de décembre, surtout lorsqu'on est célibataire, on a la sensation d'être dans le couloir de la mort. Les vacances d'été sont depuis longtemps oubliées, la nouvelle année est encore loin ; la proximité du néant est inhabituelle." Incipit”
― Michel Houellebecq, Anéantir