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Much rather would she have been one of those people who did things for themselves, whereas, she thought, half the time she did things not simply, not for themselves; but to make people think this or that; perfect idiocy she knew for no one was ever for a second taken in.

It is well for the unfortunate to be resigned, but for the guilty there is no peace. The agonies of remorse poison the luxury there is otherwise sometimes found in indulging the excess of grief.

I was formed for peaceful happiness. During my youth discontent never visited my mind; and if I was ever overcome by ennui, the sight of what is beautiful in nature, or the study of what is excellent and sublime in the productions of man, could always interest my heart, and communicate elasticity to my spirits. But I am a blasted tree; the bolt has entered my soul.

I remembered Adam’s supplication to his Creator. But where was mine? He had abandomed me, and in the bitterness of my heart I cursed him.

I remembered Adam’s supplication to his Creator. But where was mine? He had abandomed me, and in the bitterness of my heart I cursed him.

Oh, that I had forever remained in my native wood, nor known nor felt beyond the sensations of hunger, thirst and heat! Of what a strange nature is knowledge! It clings to the mind when it has once seized on it.

How can I move thee? Will no entreaties cause thee to turn a favorable eye upon thy creature, who implore thy goodness and compassion? I was benevolent; my soul glowed with love and humanity; but am I not alone, miserably alone? You, my creator abhor me.

Alas! why does man boast of sensibilities superior to those apparent in the brute; it only renders them more necessary beings. If our impulses were confined to hunger, thirst, desire, we might be nearly free; but now we are moved by every wind that blows and a chance word or scene that that word may convey to us.

Like one, on a lonesome road who doth walk in fear and dread, and having once turned round, walks on, and turns no more his head; Because he knows a frightful friend doth close behind him tread.

Learn from me how dangerous is the acquirement of knowledge and how much happier that man is who believes his native town to be the world, than he who aspires to become greater than his nature will allow.

I feel exquisite pleasure in dwelling on the recollections of childhood, before misfortune had tainted my mind, and changed its bright visions of extensive usefulness into gloomy and narrow reflections upon self.

Better for him that each sin of his life had brought its sure, swift penalty along with it. There was purification in punishment. Not ‘Forgive us our sins,’ but ‘Smite us for our iniquities,’ should be the prayer of a man to a most just God.

Actual life was chaos, but there was something terribly logical in the imagination. It was the imagination that set remorse to dog the feet of sin. It was the imagination thag made each crime bear its misshapen brood.

To cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul.

The worship of the senses has often, and with much justice, been decried, men feeling a natural instinct of terror about passions and sensations that seem stronger than themselves, and that they are conscious of sharing with the less highly organized forms of existence.

Religion consoles some. Its mysteries have the charm of a flirtation. Nothing makes one so vain as being told that one is a sinner. Conscience makes egotists of us all.

There were opiates for remorse, drugs that could lull the moral sense to sleep. But here was a visible symbol of the degradation of sin. Here was an ever-present sign of the ruin men brought upon their souls.

This book just reminded me that I read The Portrait by Gogol a long time ago. Wow and The Nose. I need to reread those short stories they were crazy. I have an actual novel by Gogol, Dead Souls, that I’m gonna read soon

An artist should create beautiful things, but should put nothing of his own life into them. We live in an age when men treat art as if it were meant to be a form of autobiography. We have lost the abstract sense of beauty.

Conscience and cowardice are really the same things. Conscience is the trade-name if the firm. That is all.

Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault. Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are cultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only Beauty.

They way the dad doesn’t make the boy feel bad for his mistakes makes me cry a bit. So sweet. He loves his son so much.

Maybe the sweetest little boy ever

I want them to stay in the storm shelter forever. I’m sad. I understand they have to keep moving but I feel like they could hang out for two weeks and it would do them a lot of good.

If we were going to die would you tell me?

So be it. Evoke the forms. Where you’ve nothing else construct ceremonies out of the air and breathe upon them.