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Dino Buzzati
“It was at this period that Drogo realised how far apart men are whatever their affection for each other, that if you suffer the pain is yours and yours alone, no one else can take upon himself the least part of it; that if you suffer it does not mean that others feel pain even though their love is great: hence the loneliness of life.”
Dino Buzzati, The Tartar Steppe

Fyodor Dostoevsky
“Above all, don't lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to such a pass that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love, and in order to occupy and distract himself without love he gives way to passions and coarse pleasures, and sinks to bestiality in his vices, all from continual lying to other men and to himself.”
Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

Mario Vargas Llosa
“It's easier to imagine the death of one person than those of a hundred or a thousand. When multiplied, suffering becomes abstract. It's not easy to be moved by abstract things.”
Mario Vargas Llosa, The War of the End of the World
tags: death

Dino Buzzati
“But at a certain point we turn round, almost instinctively,
and see that a gate has been bolted behind us, barring our way back (...)
Then we understand that time is passing and that one day or another the road must come to an end.”
Dino Buzzati, The Tartar Steppe

Clarice Lispector
“When I suddenly see myself in the depths of the mirror, I take fright. I can scarcely believe that I have limits, that I am outlined and defined. I feel myself to be dispersed in the atmosphere, thinking inside other creatures, living inside things beyond myself. When I suddenly see myself in the mirror, I am not startled because I find myself ugly or beautiful. I discover, in fact, that I possess another quality. When I haven't looked at myself for some time, I almost forget that I am human, I tend to forget my past, and I find myself with the same deliverance from purpose and conscience as something that is barely alive. I am also surprised to find as I gaze into the pale mirror with open eyes that there is so much in me beyond what is known, so much that remains ever silent.”
Clarice Lispector, Near to the Wild Heart
tags: self

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Nausea by Jean-Paul SartreThe Stranger by Albert CamusThe Trial by Franz KafkaThe Tartar Steppe by Dino BuzzatiThe Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera
Best Existential Fiction
449 books — 767 voters
Nausea by Jean-Paul SartreThe Trial by Franz KafkaThe Stranger by Albert CamusThe Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan KunderaSteppenwolf by Hermann Hesse
Best Philosophical Literature
1,170 books — 2,727 voters

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