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In der Gemeinsamkeit verliert den Tod an Schrecken. Wer allein stirbt, erlebt den Tod zweifach, einmal in seiner Einsamkeit und einmal im Tod selbst.
Ghada SammanThe secret of man's being is not only to live but to have something to live for.
Fyodor DostoevskyThe most important things in life aren't things.
Anthony J. D'AngeloFelizes os pobres! Limpos de preconceitos e de prejuízos, de sentimentos e de interesses! Benditos os que não sabem dizer 'eu tenho'. Porque esses podem dizer: 'eu vejo!
Plínio SalgadoTags: materialismo
You grow up to become living proof of your parents' limitations. Their less-than masterpiece.
Chuck Palahniukليس سلفيا من يجهل دعائم الإصلاح الخلقى والاجتماعى والسياسى كما جاء بها الاسلام وأعلى رايتها السلف،ثم يجرى هنا وهناك مذكيا الخلاف فى قضايا تجاوزها العصر الحاضر
محمد الغزاليAt the end..... Affection is always better than perfection
Manojถ้าเอ็งยืนตรง ก็ไม่ต้องกลัวว่าเงาของเอ็งจะคดโค้งไปได้
ดวงตะวันCrows," Maximus breathed. "Was that who I think it was?"
"Phrygiar Navaris," Tavi said, nodding.
"What was she doing here?" Max asked.
"Getting humiliated, mostly. Especially there at the end.
إن الأدب في لبابه قيمة إنسانية وليس قيمة لفظية
عباس محمود العقادIt's normal at this point for the fear-anger syndrome to take over and make you want to hammer on that side plate with a chisel, to pound it off with a sledge if necessary. You think about it, and the more you think about it the more you're inclined to take the whole machine to a high bridge and drop it off. It's just outrageous that a tiny little slot of a screw can defeat you so totally.
Robert M. PirsigCake is happiness! If you know the way of the cake, you know the way of happiness! If you have a cake in front of you, you should not look any further for joy!
C. JoyBell C.Tags: life inspirational happiness inspirational-quotes joy living life-and-living cake inspirational-life cakes looking-no-further the-way-of-the-cake the-way-to-happiness understanding-happiness understanding-joy
He who mocks the infant's faith
Shall be mock'd in age and death.
He who shall teach the child to doubt
The rotting grave shall ne'er get out.
He who respects the infant's faith
Triumphs over hell and death.
The child's toys and the old man's reasons
Are the fruits of the two seasons.
- "Auguries of Innocence
Tags: poetry-quotes
Every day I wonder how many things I am dead wrong about. -- True North
Jim HarrisonWhat did we talk about?
I don't remember. We talked so hard and sat so still that I got cramps in my knee. We had too many cups of tea and then didn't want to leave the table to go to the bathroom because we didn't want to stop talking. You will think we talked of revolution but we didn't. Nor did we talk of our own souls. Nor of sewing. Nor of babies. Nor of departmental intrigue. It was political if by politics you mean the laboratory talk that characters in bad movies are perpetually trying to convey (unsuccessfully) when they Wrinkle Their Wee Brows and say (valiantly--dutifully--after all, they didn't write it) "But, Doctor, doesn't that violate Finagle's Constant?" I staggered to the bathroom, released floods of tea, and returned to the kitchen to talk. It was professional talk. It left my grey-faced and with such concentration that I began to develop a headache. We talked about Mary Ann Evans' loss of faith, about Emily Brontë's isolation, about Charlotte Brontë's blinding cloud, about the split in Virginia Woolf's head and the split in her economic condition. We talked about Lady Murasaki, who wrote in a form that no respectable man would touch, Hroswit, a little name whose plays "may perhaps amuse myself," Miss Austen, who had no more expression in society than a firescreen or a poker. They did not all write letters, write memoirs, or go on the stage. Sappho--only an ambiguous, somewhat disagreeable name. Corinna? The teacher of Pindar. Olive Schriener, growing up on the veldt, wrote on book, married happily, and ever wrote another. Kate Chopin wrote a scandalous book and never wrote another. (Jean has written nothing.). There was M-ry Sh-ll-y who wrote you know what and Ch-rl-tt- P-rk-ns G-lm-an, who wrote one superb horror study and lots of sludge (was it sludge?) and Ph-ll-s Wh--tl-y who was black and wrote eighteenth century odes (but it was the eighteenth century) and Mrs. -nn R-dcl-ff- S-thw-rth and Mrs. G--rg- Sh-ld-n and (Miss?) G--rg-tt- H-y-r and B-rb-r- C-rtl-nd and the legion of those, who writing, write not, like the dead Miss B--l-y of the poem who was seduced into bad practices (fudging her endings) and hanged herself in her garter. The sun was going down. I was blind and stiff. It's at this point that the computer (which has run amok and eaten Los Angeles) is defeated by some scientifically transcendent version of pulling the plug; the furniture stood around unknowing (though we had just pulled out the plug) and Lady, who got restless when people talked at suck length because she couldn't understand it, stuck her head out from under the couch, looking for things to herd. We had talked for six hours, from one in the afternoon until seven; I had at that moment an impression of our act of creation so strong, so sharp, so extraordinarily vivid, that I could not believe all our talking hadn't led to something more tangible--mightn't you expect at least a little blue pyramid sitting in the middle of the floor?
Tags: women feminism women-writers
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