I had always been aware that the Universe is sad; everything in it, animate or inanimate, the wild creatures, the stones, the stars, was enveloped in the great sadness, pervaded by it. Existence had no use… I knew that the only rest from my anxiety — for I had been trembling even in infancy — lay in acknowledging and absorbing this sadness.
In all the edifice of thought, I have found no category on which to rest my head. . . .
- E. M. Cioran
(Cogito ergo boom.)
- Susan Sontag
'Self-knowledge'? A contradiction in terms.
- E. M. Cioran
- Suicide: the one truly serious philosophical problem -- Camus
- Poems from the Book of Hours
- I am haunted by waters
- The Other Tiger :: J. L. Borges
- Gods :: Vladimir Nabokov
- Everything and Nothing (edit) :: J. L. Borges
- Borges and I :: Frank Bidart
- The Maker (El Hacedor) :: J. L. Borges
. . . feast on ancient books to the lazy enchanting lap of wavelets in the Floating Library, in memoriam of Dr. Sineokov, who had drowned at just that spot in the city river. The grinding of chains, the little gallery with its orange-colored lamp shades, the plash, the water's smooth surface oiled by the moon, and, in the distance, lights flickering past in the black web of a lofty bridge . . .
- Vladimir Nabokov
B.S. on Argumentum Ornithologicum :: J… riddance on You, neighbor god, if sometime… Saffron on Suicide: the one truly serious… Hunger | At The Well… on Suicide: the one truly serious… email@example.com on Countless lives inhabit us. ::…
I have at this moment so many fundamental thoughts, so many truly metaphysical things to say, that I suddenly get tired and decide not to write any more, not to think any more, but to allow the fever of speaking to make me sleepy, and with my eyes closed, like a cat, I play with everything I could have said.
- Bernardo Soares
There they are, in my own handwriting: the words that have been my prayer, evening after evening. I copied them from the books I found them in, so that they would be right in front of me, issued from my hand as if they were my own words. And now I want to write them again, kneeling here before my tablet I want to write them; for in this way I can have them with me longer than when I read them, and every word will last and have time to echo and fade away.
- R. M. Rilke