I have been reading Plotinus all evening. He has the power to sooth me; and I find his sadness curiously comforting. Even when he writes: “Life here with the things of earth is a sinking, a defeat, a failure of the wing.” The wing has indeed failed. One sinks. Defeat is certain. Even as I write these lines, the lamp wick sputters to an end, and the pool of light in which I sit contracts. Soon the room will be dark. One has always feared that death would be like this. But what else is there? With Julian, the light went, and now nothing remains but to let the darkness come, and hope for a new sun and another day, born of time’s mystery and a man’s love of life.
Gore VidalTags: death-rebirth-fall
Nothing human is finally calculable; even to ourselves we are strange.
Gore VidalNever offend an enemy in a small way.
Gore VidalHistory is idle gossip about a happening whose truth is lost the instant it has taken place.
Gore VidalTags: truth history gossip 1962 363 priscus
Since nothing is free, to each his price.
Gore VidalNo one can ever love us quite so much as we love ourselves.
Gore VidalTags: love self-loving
It is curious how little interested we are in the sexual desires of those who do not attract us.
Gore VidalTags: sexuality unattractiveness
How hungrily we read about ourselves!
Gore VidalTags: self-centeredness
Heroes must see to their own fame. No one else will.
Gore VidalTags: fame self-promotion
What is in question is a kind of book reviewing which seems to be more and more popular: the loose putting down of opinions as though they were facts, and the treating of facts as though they were opinions.
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