La Pain Quotes

And there in the dark, he asks if it was really worth it. Were the instants of joy worth the stretches of sorrow? Were the moments of beauty worth the year of pain? And she turns her head, and looks at him, and says 'Always.

It’s too bad that stupidity isn’t painful.

Stupidity—The top of the list for Satanic Sins. The Cardinal Sin of Satanism. It’s too bad that stupidity isn’t painful. Ignorance is one thing, but our society thrives increasingly on stupidity. It depends on people going along with whatever they are told. The media promotes a cultivated stupidity as a posture that is not only acceptable but laudable. Satanists must learn to see through the tricks and cannot afford to be stupid.

Other people would call him sensitive, but it is more than that. The dial is broken, the volume turned all the way up. Moments of joy registered as brief, but ecstatic. Moments of pain stretched long and unbearably loud.

My best friend is dead, and I could have saved her. It’s so wrong so completely and painfully wrong, that I walked through my front door tonight smiling.

There is a great deal of pain in life and perhaps the only pain that can be avoided is the pain that comes from trying to avoid pain.

I was so blinded by her talent that I didn't recognize the tremendous pain behind her work. She gave me hundreds of images, so many chances to see that she was in trouble. I failed her.

I was such a quiet kid, so shy and calm and in my own head. Of course I knew about being sad. Maybe that's the reason I saved all the things I thought were pretty.

Pain in this life is not avoidable, but the pain we create avoiding pain is avoidable.

So much of the pain of loneliness is to do with concealment, with feeling compelled to hide vulnerability, to tuck ugliness away, to cover up scars as if they are literally repulsive. But why hide? What's so shameful about wanting, about desire, about having failed to achieve satisfaction, about experiencing unhappiness? Why this need to constantly inhabit peak states, or to be comfortably sealed inside a unit of two, turned inward from the world at large?

Want is for children. If this were want, I would be rid of you by now. I would have forgotten you centuries ago,” he says, a bitter loathing in his voice. “This is need. And need is painful but patient. Do you hear me, Adeline? I need you. As you need me. I love you, as you love me.

Even with all their threats of eternal damnation and soul roasting, Christian missionaries have run across some who were not so quick to swallow their drivel. Pleasure and pain, like beauty, are in the eye of the beholder. So, when missionaries ventured to Alaska and warned the Eskimos of the horrors of Hell and the blazing lake of fire awaiting transgressors, they eagerly asked: "How do we get there?"!

Sometimes, all you need is permission to feel. Sometimes, what causes the most pain is actually the attempt to resist feeling, or the shame that grows up like thorns around it.

When he laces his fingers through mine, my heart does its now familiar panicked flight, bumping painfully against my ribs. My shoulder twitches as if to pull my hand back, but my heart overrules it.

L'amore non esiste per renderci felici, ma per dimostrarci quando sia forte la nostra capacità di sopportare il dolore.

The other exception to the rule regards dealings with masochists. A masochist derives pleasure from being hurt; so denying the masochist his pleasure through-pain hurts him just as much as actual physical pain hurts the non masochist. The story of the truly cruel sadist illustrates this point: The masochist says to the sadist, "beat me." To which the merciless sadist replies, "NO!" If a person wants to be hurt and enjoys suffering, then there is no reason not to indulge him in his wont.

Nothing is all good or all bad," she says. "Life is so much messier than that." And there in the dark, he asks if it was really worth it. Were the instants of joy worth the stretches of sorrow? Were the moments of beauty worth the years of pain? And she turns her head, and looks at him, and says, "Always.

There are only three events in a man's life; birth, life and death; he is not conscious of being born, he dies in pain and he forgets to live.

The pain of hope dying is worse than his fists and boots.

How does your life move forward when all you want to do is. . . hold still.

I fear that I am losing my mind. But really, it would not be such a precious thing to lose, as it only causes me pain.

He is Romeo, and he is heartbroken. Every word is wistful. When he says, 'O, teach me how I should forget to think!' I, for the first time, see what the big deal is about Shakespeare.

It was maddening how your best friend could twist the knobs inside of you so much that it hurt.

You want an ending," she says. "Then take my life when I am done with it. You can have my soul when I don't want it anymore." The shadow tips his head, suddenly intrigued. A smile - just like the smile in her drawings, askance, and full of secrets - crosses his mouth. And then he pulls her to him. A lover's embrace. he is smoke and skin, air and bone, and when his mouth presses against hers, the first thing she tastes is the turning of the seasons, the moment when dusk gives way to night. And then his kiss deepens. His teeth skim her bottom lip, and there is pain in the pleasure, followed by the copper taste of blood on her tongue.

It didn't help that she was painfully shy and kept to herself, because then they just thought she was stuck-up, which she wasn't. She was just quiet.

Espero curarme de ti en unos días. Debo dejar de fumarte, de beberte, de pensarte. Es posible. Siguiendo las prescripciones de la moral en turno. Me receto tiempo, abstinencia, soledad. ¿Te parece bien que te quiera nada más una semana? No es mucho, ni es poco, es bastante. En una semana se puede reunir todas las palabras de amor que se han pronunciado sobre la tierra y se les puede prender fuego. Te voy a calentar con esa hoguera del amor quemado. Y también el silencio. Porque las mejores palabras del amor están entre dos gentes que no se dicen nada. Hay que quemar también ese otro lenguaje lateral y subversivo del que ama. (Tú sabes cómo te digo que te quiero cuando digo: «qué calor hace», «dame agua», «¿sabes manejar?», «se hizo de noche»... Entre las gentes, a un lado de tus gentes y las mías, te he dicho «ya es tarde», y tú sabías que decía «te quiero»). Una semana más para reunir todo el amor del tiempo. Para dártelo. Para que hagas con él lo que quieras: guardarlo, acariciarlo, tirarlo a la basura. No sirve, es cierto. Sólo quiero una semana para entender las cosas. Porque esto es muy parecido a estar saliendo de un manicomio para entrar a un panteón.

Tis not where we lie but whence we fell; the loss of Heaven's the greatest pain in Hell.

A promise, a bond, a joy, a love for the ages, for the history books.…But what was love but pain?

I have lived nearly fifty years, and I have seen life as it is. Pain, misery, hunger ... cruelty beyond belief. I have heard the singing from taverns and the moans from bundles of filth on the streets. I have been a soldier and seen my comrades fall in battle ... or die more slowly under the lash in Africa. I have held them in my arms at the final moment. These were men who saw life as it is, yet they died despairing. No glory, no gallant last words ... only their eyes filled with confusion, whimpering the question, "Why?" I do not think they asked why they were dying, but why they had lived. When life itself seems lunatic, who knows where madness lies? Perhaps to be too practical is madness. To surrender dreams — this may be madness. To seek treasure where there is only trash. Too much sanity may be madness — and maddest of all: to see life as it is, and not as it should be!

The greater evil who is in- When both in wayward paths are straying? The poor sinner for the pain Or he who pays for the sin?

Mientras mas honda la herida, Es mi canto mas hermoso. While more deeper is the wound The more beautiful the art.

You are a blade that has been brutally forged, painfully hammered, and wickedly honed. You are steel, not poison. You are deadly, not depraved. They are very different things, Sybella.

No intentes enterrar el dolor: se extenderá a través de la tierra, bajo tus pies; se filtrará en el agua que hayas de beber y te envenenará la sangre. Las heridas se cierran, pero siempre quedan cicatrices más o menos visibles que volverán a molestar cuando cambie el tiempo, recordándote en la piel su existencia, y con ella el golpe que las originó. Y el recuerdo del golpe afectará a decisiones futuras, creará miedos inútiles y tristezas arrastradas, y tú crecerás como una criatura apagada y cobarde. ¿Para qué intentar huir y dejar atrás la ciudad donde caíste? ¿Por la vana esperanza de que en otro lugar, en un clima más benigno, ya no te dolerán las cicatrices y beberás un agua más limpia? A tu alrededor se alzarán las mismas ruinas de tu vida, porque allá donde vayas llevarás a la ciudad contigo. No hay tierra nueva ni mar nuevo, la vida que has malogrado malograda queda en cualquier parte del mundo.

Life is will-to-live, will is a lack, lack is pain, all life is pain.

Pain can be beautiful. It can transform. It can create.

La loi, dans un grand souci d'égalité, interdit aux riches comme aux pauvres de coucher sous les ponts, de mendier dans les rues et de voler du pain.

«Dios susurra y habla a la conciencia a través del placer, pero le grita mediante el dolor: el dolor es su megáfono para despertar a un mundo adormecido» C.S. Lewis, El problema del dolor

1. Live now. Be concerned with the present rather than with past or future. 2. Live here. Deal with what is present rather than with what is absent. 3. Stop imagining. Experience the real. 4. Stop unnecessary thinking. Rather, taste and see. 5. Express rather than manipulate, explain, justify, or judge. 6. Give in to unpleasantness and pain just as to pleasure. Do not restrict your awareness. 7. Accept no should or ought other than your own. Adore no graven image. 8. Take full responsibility for your actions, feelings, and thoughts. 9. Surrender to being as you are.

La luz es mala, no al contrario, y por eso deberíamos aprender a mantenerla apagada. La luz descubre cosas que la oscuridad esconde, como la sangre y los sentimientos; en cambio, las sombras son sabias, y si hay algo guardado en ellas probablemente es porque tiene que estar ahí.

Firstly: don't touch the hands of your cuckoo-clock heart. Secondly: master your anger. Thirdly: never, ever fall in love. For if you do, the hour hand will poke through your skin, your bones will shatter, and your heart will break once more.

Gran parte de una desgracia cualquiera consiste, por así decirlo, en la sombra de la desgracia, en la reflexión sobre ella. Es decir en el hecho de que no se limite uno a sufrir, sino que se vea obligado a seguir considerando el hecho de que sufre.

Queremos que el fotógrafo sea un espía en la casa del amor y de la muerte y que los retratados no sean conscientes de la cámara, se encuentren con "la guardia baja".

Of course! That was it! I didn't need a tattoo. What I needed was something a lot less expensive and considerably less painful. What I needed was a Playboy. Guys who are gay do not keep Playboy magazines in their bedrooms.

The strongest athlete isn't the one who finishes first. That athlete is the fastest. The strongest athlete is the one who gets up again every time he falls, the one who doesn't stop when he feels a pain in his side, the one who doesn't abandon the race, no matter how far away the finish line is. That runner is a winner whenever he reaches the finish line, even if he comes in last. Sometimes, no matter how much you want it, being the fastest isn't an option, because your legs aren't as long or your lungs as large. But you can always choose to be the strongest. It's up to you - your willpower and your effort.

It has been a hard and lonely life, she says, and a wonderful one, too. She has lived through wars, and fought in them, witnessed revolutions and rebirth. She has left her mark on a thousand works of art, like a thumbprint in the bottom of a drying bowl. She has seen marvels, and gone mad, has danced in snowbanks and frozen to death along the Seine. She fell in love with the darkness many times, fell in love with a human once. And she is tired. Unspeakably tired. But there is no question she has lived. 'Nothing is all good or all bad,' she says. 'Life is os much messier than that.' And there in the dark, he asks if it was really worth it. Were the instants of joy worth the stretches of sorrow? Were the moments of beauty worth the years of pain? And she turns her head, and looks at him, and says, 'Always.

It's nothing I can clearly see as good or bad, but it is...intense." Isobel pushes the cards around a bit, Le Bateleur and La Papessa surrounded by fire-tinged wands and watery cups. The crackle of the fire next to them mingles with the rain pattering against the windows. "It almost contradicts itself," she says after a moment. "It's as if there is love and loss at the same time, together in a kind of beautiful pain.

La Courbe de tes yeux La courbe de tes yeux fait le tour de mon coeur, Un rond de danse et de douceur, Auréole du temps, berceau nocturne et sûr, Et si je ne sais plus tout ce que j'ai vécu C'est que tes yeux ne m'ont pas toujours vu. Feuilles de jour et mousse de rosée, Roseaux du vent, sourires parfumés, Ailes couvrant le monde de lumière, Bateaux chargés du ciel et de la mer, Chasseurs des bruits et sources des couleurs, Parfums éclos d'une couvée d'aurores Qui gît toujours sur la paille des astres, Comme le jour dépend de l'innocence Le monde entier dépend de tes yeux purs Et tout mon sang coule dans leurs regards.

So this is pain. So this is wretchedness. So this is misery. I never knew. -Jack

Since then my loneliness does not pain me, because I know my redeemer lives and he will finally rise above the dust.

…is methodical abuse, often using indoctrination, aimed at breaking the will of another human being. In a 1989 report, the Ritual Abuse Task Force of the L.A. County Commission for Women defined ritual abuse as: “Ritual Abuse usually involves repeated abuse over an extended period of time. The physical abuse is severe, sometimes including torture and killing. The sexual abuse is usually painful,humiliating, intended as a means of gaining dominance over the victim.The psychological abuse is devastating and involves the use of ritual indoctrination. It includes mind control techniques which convey to the victim a profound terror of the cult members …most victims are in a state of terror, mind control and dissociation” (Pg. 35-36)

Actions are powerful, but it’s important to acknowledge that so are emotions. Emotional abuse can be the most painful thing a person can endure because it’s abuse of your soul and mind.

Ninguna definición compleja de lo que es o podrá ser la fotografía atenuará jamás el placer deparado por una foto de un hecho inesperado que capta a mitad de la acción un fotógrafo alerta.

Mike says the studio indulges Leo bc he's a magical starboy. He thinks Melanie puts up w/it bc it's a great credit bc everything Leo touches turns to gold. Maybe one day I'll turn to gold.

Pensava a una cosa che non aveva pensata da molto tempo, poiché aveva sofferto assai: che il dolore non si può togliere, non si deve, perché è il nostro guardiano. Spesso è un guardiano sciocco, perché è inflessibile, è fedele alla sua consegna con ostinazione maniaca, e non si stanca mai, mentre tutte le altre sensazioni si stancano, si logorano, specialmente quelle piacevoli. Ma non si può sopprimerlo, farlo tacere, perché è tutt'uno con la vita, ne è il custode.

Pearls. Take, like an oyster, your irritations, your pain. Use these to create your masterpiece.

I held your hand tightly in the rain Until I realized you had let me go-- I was holding on in vain, I was holding on in pain.

Her tears had released her emotions, painful as splinters of glass, but necessary, too. She couldn't claim she felt well, but at least she felt.

[...] et, comme aux temps anciens, tu pourrais dormir dans la mer.

You felt all the love in the world, and for that, you received all the pain that comes with it. Yet, you still loved, and for that you are seen as beautiful.

The labour of the body frees us from the pains of the mind, and thus makes the poor happy.

Pain can be beautiful, he says, exhaling a cloud of smoke. It can transform. It can create.

Avrei tanto voluto che la giornata fosse tutta come la colazione, quando le persone sono ancora sintonizzate sui loro sogni e non è previsto che debbano affrontare il mondo esterno. Mi sono reso conto che io sono sempre così; per me non arriva mai il momento in cui, dopo una tazza di caffè o una doccia, mi sento improvvisamente pieno di vita, sveglio e in sintonia col mondo. Se si fosse sempre a colazione, io sarei a posto.

The light was crude. It made Artaud's eyes shrink into darkness, as they are deep-set. This brought into relief the intensity of his gestures. He looked tormented. His hair, rather long, fell at times over his forehead. He has the actor's nimbleness and quickness of gestures. His face is lean, as if ravaged by fevers. His eyes do not seem to see the people. They are the eyes of a visionary. His hands are long, long-fingered. Beside him Allendy looks earthy, heavy, gray. He sits at the desk, massive, brooding. Artaud steps out on the platform, and begins to talk about " The Theatre and the Plague." He asked me to sit in the front row. It seems to me that all he is asking for is intensity, a more heightened form of feeling and living. Is he trying to remind us that it was during the Plague that so many marvelous works of art and theater came to be, because, whipped by the fear of death, man seeks immortality, or to escape, or to surpass himself? But then, imperceptibly almost, he let go of the thread we were following and began to act out dying by plague. No one quite knew when it began. To illustrate his conference, he was acting out an agony. "La Peste" in French is so much more terrible than "The Plague" in English. But no word could describe what Artaud acted out on the platform of the Sorbonne. He forgot about his conference, the theatre, his ideas, Dr. Allendy sitting there, the public, the young students, his wife, professors, and directors. His face was contorted with anguish, one could see the perspiration dampening his hair. His eyes dilated, his muscles became cramped, his fingers struggled to retain their flexibility. He made one feel the parched and burning throat, the pains, the fever, the fire in the guts. He was in agony. He was screaming. He was delirious. He was enacting his own death, his own crucifixion. At first people gasped. And then they began to laugh. Everyone was laughing! They hissed. Then, one by one, they began to leave, noisily, talking, protesting. They banged the door as they left. The only ones who did not move were Allendy, his wife, the Lalous, Marguerite. More protestations. More jeering. But Artaud went on, until the last gasp. And stayed on the floor. Then when the hall had emptied of all but his small group of friends, he walked straight up to me and kissed my hand. He asked me to go to the cafe with him.

Seul, Être à soi-même son pain, Et encore, il s'engrange qu'il dit, Et pète par toutes les fissures. En blocs, en lames, en jets et en cristal, Mais derrière le mur de ses paroles, C'est un grand sourd.

Pain can be beautiful," he says, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "It can transform. It can create." "But I don't want to be in pain," says Henry hoarsely. "I want-" "You want to be loved." A small empty sound, half cough, half sob. "Yes." "Then be loved." "You make it sound simple." "It is," says the stranger. "If you're willing to pay.

I’ve waited a long time for you and now that I finally have you I will move Heaven and Earth to keep you right where I’ve always wanted you, at my side. I will walk in the rain so you stay dry, I will forgo food so you can eat, I will take the pain so you won’t feel any and I will absolutely step in front of danger to keep you safe.” Tears

Le temps perdu est comme le pain oublié sur la table, le pain sec. On peut le donner aux moineaux. On peut aussi le jeter. On peut encore le manger, comme dans l'enfance le pain perdu : trempé dans du lait pour l'adoucir, recouvrir de jaune d’œuf et de sucre, et cuit dans une poêle. Il n'est pas perdu, le pain perdu, puisqu'on le mange. Il n'est pas perdu le temps perdu, puisqu'on y touche à la fin des temps et qu'on y mange à sa mort, à chaque seconde, à chaque bouchée. (p90)

But what if we took it one step further and made an effort to actually transform our pain into something beautiful? What if we went full out and made an effort to transform other people’s pain into something beautiful?

La vie est vaine, Un peu d’amour, Un peu de haine, Et puis—Bonjour! La vie est brève: Un peu d’espoir, Un peu de rève Et puis—Bon soir! Ah, brief is Life, Love’s short sweet way, With dreamings rife, And then—Good-day! And Life is vain— Hope’s vague delight, Grief’s transient pain, And then—Good-night.

Oedipa resolved to pull in at the next motel she saw, however ugly, stillness and four walls having at some point become preferable to this illusion of speed, freedom, wind in your hair, unreeling landscape—it wasn’t. What the road really was, she fancied, was this hypodermic needle, inserted somewhere ahead into the vein of a freeway, a vein nourishing the mainliner L.A., keeping it happy, coherent, protected from pain, or whatever passes, with a city, for pain. But were Oedipa some single melted crystal of urban horse, L.A., really, would be no less turned on for her absence.

Man is so wretched that, while directing all his conduct towards satisfying his passions, he constantly moans about their tyranny: he cannot bear their violence, nor the violence he must use against himself in order to free himself from their yoke; he finds them disgusting, but so too their remedies, and he cannot come to terms with the pain of his illness, nor with the labour necessary for a cure.

Bronagh,” I said, grinning at my sister. “What is your favourite position in bed?” Dominic looked at his lady, a smirk playing on his lips. Bronagh mulled my question over in her mind then after some serious consideration she said, “Near the wall, so I’m closest to me phone when it’s chargin’.” I tittered at her answer, then looked to Dominic and burst into laughter. The look of hurt and betrayal was plastered all over his sculpted face. “Kicking me in the nuts would have been less painful, Bronagh,” he muttered as he stood up and practically dragged himself, and his wounded ego, out of the room

No doubt it was ridiculous to be so sensitive. But there was something almost agonising about speaking and being misunderstood or found unintelligible, something that got right to the heart of all my fears about aloneness. No one will ever understand you. No one wants to hear what you say. Why can't you fit in, why do you have to stick out so much? It wasn't hard to see why someone in this position might come to mistrust language, doubting its ability to bridge the gap between bodies, traumatised by the revealed gulf, the potentially lethal abyss that lurks beneath each carefully proferred sentence. Dumbness in this context might be a way of evading hurt, dodging the pain of failed communication by refusing to participate in it at all. That's how I explained my growing silence, anyway; as an aversion akin to someone wishing to avoid a repeated electric shock.

You burn to have your photograph in a tennis magazine.” “I’m afraid so.” “Why again exactly, now?” “I guess to be felt about as I feel about those players with their pictures in magazines.” “Why?” “Why? I guess to give my life some sort of meaning, Lyle.” “And how would this do this again?” “Lyle, I don’t know. I do not know. It just does. Would. Why else would I burn like this, clip secret pictures, not take risks, not sleep or pee?” “You feel these men with their photographs in magazines care deeply about having their photographs in magazines. Derive immense meaning.” “I do. They must. I would. Else why would I burn like this to feel as they feel?” “The meaning they feel, you mean. From the fame.” “Lyle, don’t they?” “LaMont, perhaps they did at first. The first photograph, the first magazine, the gratified surge, the seeing themselves as others see them, the hagiography of image, perhaps. Perhaps the first time: enjoyment. After that, do you trust me, trust me: they do not feel what you burn for. After the first surge, they care only that their photographs seem awkward or unflattering, or untrue, or that their privacy, this thing you burn to escape, what they call their privacy is being violated. Something changes. After the first photograph has been in a magazine, the famous men do not enjoy their photographs in magazines so much as they fear that their photographs will cease to appear in magazines. They are trapped, just as you are.” “Is this supposed to be good news? This is awful news.” “LaMont, are you willing to listen to a Remark about what is true?” “Okey-dokey.” “The truth will set you free. But not until it is finished with you.” “Maybe I ought to be getting back.” “LaMont, the world is very old. You have been snared by something untrue. You are deluded. But this is good news. You have been snared by the delusion that envy has a reciprocal. You assume that there is a flip-side to your painful envy of Michael Chang: namely Michael Chang’s enjoyable feeling of being-envied-by-LaMont-Chu. No such animal.” “Animal?” “You burn with hunger for food that does not exist.” “This is good news?” “It is the truth. To be envied, admired, is not a feeling. Nor is fame a feeling. There are feelings associated with fame, but few of them are any more enjoyable than the feelings associated with envy of fame.” “The burning doesn’t go away?” “What fire dies when you feed it? It is not fame itself they wish to deny you here. Trust them. There is much fear in fame. Terrible and heavy fear to be pulled and held, carried. Perhaps they want only to keep it off you until you weigh enough to pull toward yourself.” “Would I sound ungrateful if I said this doesn’t make me feel very much better at all?” “LaMont, the truth is that the world is incredibly, incredibly, unbelievably old. You suffer with the stunted desire caused by one of its oldest lies. Do not believe the photographs. Fame is not the exit from any cage.” “So I’m stuck in the cage from either side. Fame or tortured envy of fame. There’s no way out.” “You might consider how escape from a cage must surely require, foremost, awareness of the fact of the cage.

The aesthetic construct, and nothing else, has taught us to expose ourselves to a non-enslaving experience of rank differences. The work of art is even allowed to 'tell' us, those who have run away from form, something, because it quite obviously does not embody the intention to confine us. 'La poesie ne s'impose plus, elle s'expose' Something that exposes itself and proves itself in this test gains unpresumed authority. In the space of aesthetic simulation, which is at once the emergency space for the success and failure of the artistic construct, the powerless superiority of the works can affect observers who otherwise take pains to ensure that they have no lord, old or new, above them.

She put him out like the burning end of a midnight cigarett. She broke his heart. He spent his whole life trying to forget. We watched him drink his pain away a little at a time. But he never could get drunk enough to get her off his mind until the night. He put that bottle to his head and pulled the trigger. And finally drank away her memory. Life is short but this time it was bigger, Than the strength he had to get up off his knees. We found him with his face down in the pillow. With a note that said: I love her til' I die. And when we buried him beneath the willow, The angels sang a whiskey lullaby. La la la la la la la. La la la la la la la. La la la la la la la. La la la la la la la. The rumors flew, But nobody knew how much she blamed herself for years and years. She tried to hide the whiskey on her breath. She finally drank her pain away a little at a time, But she never could get drunk enough to get him off her mind until the night. She put that bottle to her head and pulled the trigger. And finally drank away his memory. Life is short but this time it was bigger, Than the strength she had to get up off her knees. We found her with her face down in the pillow. Clinging to his picture for dear life. We laid her next to him beneath the willow, While the angels sang a whiskey lullaby. La la la la la la la. La la la la la la la. La la la la la la la. La la la la la la la.

—Mira, no entiendo todo lo que hemos pasado juntos, lo que significa todo esto. Pero lo que sí sé... —Se enjuga una lágrima de la cara—, lo que sé es que algún día lo echaré de menos, incluso las partes más duras, incluso los horrores. Te echaré de menos —le dice mirándolo a los ojos—, este momento, aquí y ahora. Bradwell la mira como memorizando su cara. —Conseguiré llegar —le dice Pressia a modo de despedida. —Lo que quiero es que consigas volver —replica el otro.

My aunt must have been perfectly well aware that she would not see Swann again, that she would never leave her own house any more, but this ultimate seclusion seemed to be accepted by her with all the more readiness for the very reason which, to our minds, ought to have made it more unbearable; namely, that such a seclusion was forced upon her by the gradual and steady diminution in her strength which she was able to measure daily, which, by making every action, every movement 'tiring' to her if not actually painful, gave to inaction, isolation and silence the blessed, strengthening and refreshing charm of repose.

Then she got all teary again and made the scrunchy face with more nodding, and the pain started to come out, but then she worked really hard to reign it in and fight the tears and shook her head side to side as if that would keep it in, which it did, and then she dropped her chin and made a weird motor cry and took a deep breath in and exhaled and nodded and succeeded. Wow. Amazing. It was like watching a transformer or sculptor taking clay through a full range of emotions. Sadie is a true emo artist.

But, you will say, what a dreadful person you are, with your impossible religious notions and idiotic scruples. If my ideas are impossible or idiotic then I would like nothing better than to be rid of them. But this is roughly the way I actually see things. In Le philosophe sous les toits by Souvestre you can read what a man of the people, a simple craftsman, pitiful if you will, thinks of his country: ‘Tu n’as peut-être jamais pensé á ce que c’est la patrie, reprit-il, en me posant une main sur l’épaule; c’est tout ce qui t’entoure, tout ce qui t’a élevé et nourri, tout ce que tu as aimé. Cette campagne que tu vois, ces maisons, ces arbres, ces jeunes filles qui passent lá en riant, c’est la patrie! Les lois qui te protégent, le pain qui paye ton travail, les paroles que tu échanges, la joie et la tristesse qui te viennent des hommes et des choses parmi lesquels tu vis, c’est la patrie! La petite chambre oú tu as autrefois vu ta mere, les souvenirs qu’elle t’a laisses, la terre oú elle repose, c’est la patrie! Tu la vois, tu la respires partout! Figure toi, tes droits et tes devoirs, tes affections et tes besoins, tes souvenirs et ta reconnaissance, réunis tout ça sous un seul nom et ce nom sera la patrie.

And then he pulls her to him. A lover's embrace. He is smoke and skin, air and bone, and when his mouth presses against hers, the first thing she tastes is the turning of the seasons, the moment when dusk gives way to night. And then his kiss deepens. His teeth skim her bottom lip, and there is pain in the pleasure, followed by the copper taste of blood on her tongue. "Done," whispers the god against her lips. And then the world goes black, and she is falling.

He was becoming an effective human being. He had learned from his birth family how to snare rabbits, make stew, paint fingernails, glue wallpaper, conduct ceremonies, start outside fires in a driving rain, sew with a sewing machine, cut quilt squares, play Halo, gather, dry, and boil various medicine teas. He had learned from the old people how to move between worlds seen and unseen. Peter taught him how to use an ax, a chain saw, safely handle a .22, drive a riding lawn mower, drive a tractor, even a car. Nola taught him how to paint walls, keep animals, how to plant and grow things, how to fry meat, how to bake. Maggie taught him how to hide fear, fake pain, how to punch with a knuckle jutting. How to go for the eyes. How to hook your fingers in a person’s nose from behind and threaten to rip the nose off your face. He hadn’t done these things yet, and neither had Maggie, but she was always looking for a chance. When

Quasi tutti pensano che le cose non siano vere finché non sono state dette, che sia la comunicazione, non il pensiero a dargli legittimità. È per questo che la gente vuole sempre che gli si dica «Ti amo, ti voglio bene». Per me è il contrario: i pensieri sono più veri quando vengono pensati, esprimerli li distorce o li diluisce, la cosa migliore è che restino nell'hangar buio della mente, nel suo clima controllato, perché l'aria e la luce possono alterarli come una pellicola esposta accidentalmente.

This was why love was so dangerous. Love turned the world into a garden, so beguiling it was easy to forget that rose petals sails appeared charmed. They blazed red in the day and silver at night, like a magician’s cloak, hinting at mysteries concealed beneath, which Tella planned to uncover that night. Drunken laughter floated above her as Tella delved deeper into the ship’s underbelly in search of Nigel the Fortune-teller. Her first evening on the vessel she’d made the mistake of sleeping, not realizing until the following day that Legend’s performers had switched their waking hours to prepare for the next Caraval. They slumbered in the day and woke after sunset. All Tella had learned her first day aboard La Esmeralda was that Nigel was on the ship, but she had yet to actually see him. The creaking halls beneath decks were like the bridges of Caraval, leading different places at different hours and making it difficult to know who stayed in which room. Tella wondered if Legend had designed it that way, or if it was just the unpredictable nature of magic. She imagined Legend in his top hat, laughing at the question and at the idea that magic had more control than he did. For many, Legend was the definition of magic. When she had first arrived on Isla de los Sueños, Tella suspected everyone could be Legend. Julian had so many secrets that she’d questioned if Legend’s identity was one of them, up until he’d briefly died. Caspar, with his sparkling eyes and rich laugh, had played the role of Legend in the last game, and at times he’d been so convincing Tella wondered if he was actually acting. At first sight, Dante, who was almost too beautiful to be real, looked like the Legend she’d always imagined. Tella could picture Dante’s wide shoulders filling out a black tailcoat while a velvet top hat shadowed his head. But the more Tella thought about Legend, the more she wondered if he even ever wore a top hat. If maybe the symbol was another thing to throw people off. Perhaps Legend was more magic than man and Tella had never met him in the flesh at all. The boat rocked and an actual laugh pierced the quiet. Tella froze. The laughter ceased but the air in the thin corridor shifted. What had smelled of salt and wood and damp turned thick and velvet-sweet. The scent of roses. Tella’s skin prickled; gooseflesh rose on her bare arms. At her feet a puddle of petals formed a seductive trail of red. Tella might not have known Legend’s true name, but she knew he favored red and roses and games. Was this his way of toying with her? Did he know what she was up to? The bumps on her arms crawled up to her neck and into her scalp as her newest pair of slippers crushed the tender petals. If Legend knew what she was after, Tella couldn’t imagine he would guide her in the correct direction, and yet the trail of petals was too tempting to avoid. They led to a door that glowed copper around the edges. She turned the knob. And her world transformed into a garden, a paradise made of blossoming flowers and bewitching romance. The walls were formed of moonlight. The ceiling was made of roses that dripped down toward the table in the center of the room, covered with plates of cakes and candlelight and sparkling honey wine. But none of it was for Tella. It was all for Scarlett. Tella had stumbled into her sister’s love story and it was so romantic it was painful to watch. Scarlett stood across the chamber. Her full ruby gown bloomed brighter than any flowers, and her glowing skin rivaled the moon as she gazed up at Julian. They touched nothing except each other. While Scarlett pressed her lips to Julian’s, his arms wrapped around her as if he’d found the one thing he never wanted to let go of. This was why love was so dangerous. Love turned the world into a garden, so beguiling it was easy to forget that rose petals were as ephemeral as feelings, eventually they would wilt and die, leaving nothing but the thorns.

In her fantastic mood she stretched her soft, clasped hands upward toward the moon. 'Sweet moon,' she said in a kind of mock prayer, 'make your white light come down in music into my dancing-room here, and I will dance most deliciously for you to see". She flung her head backward and let her hands fall; her eyes were half closed, and her mouth was a kissing mouth. 'Ah! sweet moon,' she whispered, 'do this for me, and I will be your slave; I will be what you will.' Quite suddenly the air was filled with the sound of a grand invisible orchestra. Viola did not stop to wonder. To the music of a slow saraband she swayed and postured. In the music there was the regular beat of small drums and a perpetual drone. The air seemed to be filled with the perfume of some bitter spice. Viola could fancy almost that she saw a smoldering campfire and heard far off the roar of some desolate wild beast. She let her long hair fall, raising the heavy strands of it in either hand as she moved slowly to the laden music. Slowly her body swayed with drowsy grace, slowly her satin shoes slid over the silver sand. The music ceased with a clash of cymbals. Viola rubbed her eyes. She fastened her hair up carefully again. Suddenly she looked up, almost imperiously. "Music! more music!" she cried. Once more the music came. This time it was a dance of caprice, pelting along over the violin-strings, leaping, laughing, wanton. Again an illusion seemed to cross her eyes. An old king was watching her, a king with the sordid history of the exhaustion of pleasure written on his flaccid face. A hook-nosed courtier by his side settled the ruffles at his wrists and mumbled, 'Ravissant! Quel malheur que la vieillesse!' It was a strange illusion. Faster and faster she sped to the music, stepping, spinning, pirouetting; the dance was light as thistle-down, fierce as fire, smooth as a rapid stream. The moment that the music ceased Viola became horribly afraid. She turned and fled away from the moonlit space, through the trees, down the dark alleys of the maze, not heeding in the least which turn she took, and yet she found herself soon at the outside iron gate. ("The Moon Slave")

Then I shower the Enemy with a one-two punch of Long Island radiation and Gowanus toxic waster, which burn it like acid. It screams again in pain and disgust, but Fuck you, you don't belong here, this city is mine, get out! to drive this lesson home, I cut the bitch with LIRR traffic, long viscous honking lines; and to stretch out its pain, I salt these wounds with the memory of a bus ride to LaGuardia and back. And just to add insult to injury? I backhand its ass with Hoboken, raining the drunk rage of ten thousand dudebros down on it like the hammer of God. Port Authority makes it honorary New York, motherfucker; you just got Jerseyed.

For in this way Swann was kept in the state of painful agitation which had once before been effective in making his interest blossom into love, on the night when he had failed to find Odette at the Verdurins' and had haunted for her all evening. And he did not have (as I had, afterward, at Combray in my childhood) happy days in which to forget the sufferings that would return with the night. For his days, Swann must pass them without Odette; and as he told himself, now and then, to allow so pretty a woman to go out by herself in Paris was just as rash as to leave a case filled with jewels in the middle of the street. In this mood he would scowl furiously at the passers-by, as though they were so many pick-pockets. But their faces - a collective and formless mass - escaped the grasp of his imagination, and so failed to feed the flame of his jealousy.

You have me all to yourself, germinator. What do you want to do?” I whispered, only wincing a little at the pain in my throat. Kane locked his eyes on mine and with a smirk, he said, “When you come back here I want to turn on my laptop and watch season three of the Sons of Anarchy with you.” Fuck. How’d I get so lucky? “I love it when you talk dirty to me.” Kane laughed, “Then shut up and listen to me talk. Rest your voice - your throat won’t heal otherwise.” “One more thing then I’ll stop.” “What is it?” “I love you,” I whispered. Kane’s face softened. “I love you too, Aideen. You’re my whole world, babydoll, but if you say one more word, I’ll put tape over your mouth.” “Me and you?” He nodded. “Me and you.

And if sorrow clouds your soul, don't fight it; allow the tears to flow. We are not meant to be invincible, we bruise easily, and the heart is soft; prone to bleed at the slightest touch. It is in those moments of sadness that we must be brave enough to allow Christ in, to let him be present in our pain; our sorrow is seen by Christ. One day He will wipe away every tear, He will hold us tight, but for now we must pray through the pain. Just know that Christ shares our pain, He understands the sorrow that is within you, for He was a man of many sorrows. He wept alone, He was tormented and forsaken. Believe me, a man who has been forsaken such as Christ will never forsake you. Jesus is the only person who knows all that you have been through, He is the only one who knows the deepest, darkest spots of your soul, and still---He remains. Jesus has the scars to prove that He is trustworthy, He has the only heart that bled for you; and He will never stop loving you.

Loneliness is not supposed to induce empathy, but like Wojnarowicz’s diaries and Klaus Nomi’s voice, that painting of Warhol was one of the things that most medicated my own feelings of loneliness, giving me a sense of the potential beauty present in a frank declaration that one is human and as such subject to need. So much of the pain of loneliness is to do with concealment, with feeling compelled to hide vulnerability, to tuck ugliness away, to cover up scars as if they are literally repulsive. But why hide? What’s so shameful about wanting, about desire, about having failed to achieve satisfaction, about experiencing unhappiness? Why this need to constantly inhabit peak states, or to be comfortably sealed inside a unit two, turned inward from the world at large?

Look, people need to conform the external reality they face daily with this subjective feeling they likewise experience constantly. To do this they have two options. First, they can achieve what passes for great things. Now the external reality matches their feeling; they really are better than the rest and maybe they'll even be remembered as such. These are the ambitious people, the overachievers. These are also, however, the people who go on these abominable talk shows where they can trade their psychoses for exposure on that box, modernity's ultimate achievement. Not that this tact, being ambitious, is not the preferred course of action. The reason is it's the equivalent of sticking your neck out which we all know is dangerous. Instead many act like they have no ambition whatsoever. Their necks come back in and they're safe. Only problem is now they're at everyone else's level, which we've seen is untenable. The remedy of course is that everyone else needs to be sunk. This helps explain racism's enduring popularity. If I myself don't appear to be markedly superior to everyone else at least I'm part of the better race, country, religion et cetera. This in turn reflects well on my individual worth. There are other options, of course. For example, you can constantly bemoan others' lack of moral worth by extension elevating yourself. Think of the average person's reaction to our clients. Do these people strike you as so truly righteous that they are viscerally pained by our clients' misdeeds or are they similarly flawed people looking for anything to hang their hat on? The latter obviously, they're vermin.

Gamberge Tu gamberges. Tu regardes ta vie. Ça ne colle pas. Alors tu déprimes. Combien de vies ratées pour une vie réussie ? C'est quoi, les proportions ? Qu'est-ce que j'ai mal fait pour en arriver là ? C'est quand, que j'ai merdé ? J'ai encore le temps de me rattraper ? Combien de chances il me reste pour m'en sortir pas trop mal ? Elle peut encore changer, ma vie ? Je ne suis pas fait pour cette vie-là ? Ça se change, une vie ? Je veux dire, ça se change vraiment ? C'est quoi, le problème ? C'est ma névrose ? Comment on fait pour tordre une névrose ? J'ai mangé mon pain blanc, alors ? JE l'ai mangé sans m'en rendre compte, c'est ça ? Je vais encore ramer longtemps comme ça ? C'est encore loin, l'Amérique ? Est-ce qu'un jour moi aussi je mâchouillerai un brin d'herbe sous un saule en me disant que la vie est belle ? Qu'elle est sacrement belle ? Faut que j'arrête de gamberger, c'est pas bon.

Stand on the highest pavement of the stair— Lean on a garden urn— Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair— Clasp your flowers to you with a pained surprise— Fling them to the ground and turn With a fugitive resentment in your eyes: But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair. So I would have had him leave, So I would have had her stand and grieve, So he would have left As the soul leaves the body torn and bruised, As the mind deserts the body it has used. I should find Some way incomparably light and deft, Some way we both should understand, Simple and faithless as a smile and shake of the hand. She turned away, but with the autumn weather Compelled my imagination many days, Many days and many hours: Her hair over her arms and her arms full of flowers. And I wonder how they should have been together! I should have lost a gesture and a pose. Sometimes these cogitations still amaze The troubled midnight and the noon’s repose.

«Sono sicura che troverai qualcosa di adatto a te, James. Le cose si metteranno a posto da sole, vedrai. (…) E se per te andare all'università fosse proprio uno sbaglio, se effettivamente non dovesse piacerti come temi, beh, Non sarà stata un'esperienza sprecata. A volte le brutte esperienze aiutano, servono a chiarire che cosa dobbiamo fare davvero. Forse ti sembro troppo ottimista, ma io penso che le persone che fanno solo belle esperienze non siano molto interessanti. Possono essere appagate, e magari a modo loro anche felici, ma non sono molto profonde. Ora la tua ti può sembrare una sciagura che ti complica la vita, ma sai... godersi i momenti felici è facile. Non che la felicità sia necessariamente semplice. Io non credo, però, che la tua vita sarà così, e sono convinta che proprio per questo tu sarai una persona migliore. Il difficile è non lasciarsi abbattere dai momenti brutti. Devi considerarli un dono - un dono crudele, ma pur sempre un dono.»

Cum e posibil să existăm? Cine-a comis scandalul și nedreptatea asta? Oroarea asta, abominația asta? Ce imaginație monstruasă a învelit conștiința în carne? Ce spirit sadic și saturnin a permis conștiinței să sufere, spiritului să urle-n tortură? De ce-am coborât în mocirla asta, în jungla asta, în flăcările astea pline de ură și furie? Cine ne-a dat brânci din locurile noastre înalte? Cine ne-a-ncuiat în trupuri, cine ne-a legat cu proprii noștri nervi și propriile noastre artere? Cine ne-a silit să avem oase și zgârciuri, sfinctere și glande, rinichi și unghii, piele și intestine? Ce căutăm în mașinăria asta murdară și moale? Cine ne-a legat la ochi cu proprii noștri ochi, cine ne-a astupat urechile cu propriile noștri urechi? Ce avem noi a face cu ciorchinele de celule ale trupului nostru? Cu materia ce curge prin el ca printr-un tub de carne agonică? Ce căutăm noi aici? Ce e batjocura asta? De ce-notăm în acizii ce ne ulcerează gândirea? Protestați, protestați împotriva conștiinței îngropate în carne!

Konstantin Tsiolkovsky in Russia, Hermann Olberth in Germany, and Robert Goddard in the United States all came up with an eerily similar concept for using liquid fuel to power rockets for human spaceflight. I've seen this pointed out as an odd coincidence, one of those moments when an idea inexplicably emerges in multiple places at once. But when I read through each of these three men's biographies I discovered why they all had the same idea: all three of them were obsessed with Jules Verne's 1865 novel "De la terre a la lune (From the Earth to the Moon)." The novel details the strange adventures of three space explorers who travel to the moon together. What sets Verne's book apart from the other speculative fiction of the time was his careful attention to the physics involved in space travel -- his characters take pains to explain to each other exactly how and why each concept would work. All three real-life scientists -- the Russian, the German, and the American -- were following what they had learned from a French science fiction writer.

The name Gilberte passed close by me, evoking all the more forcibly her whom it labelled in that it did not merely refer to her, as one speaks of a man in his absence, but was directly addressed to her; it passed thus close by me, in action, so to speak, with a force that increased with the curve of its trajectory and as it drew near to its target;—carrying in its wake, I could feel, the knowledge, the impression of her to whom it was addressed that belonged not to me but to the friend who called to her, everything that, while she uttered the words, she more or less vividly reviewed, possessed in her memory, of their daily intimacy, of the visits that they paid to each other, of that unknown existence which was all the more inaccessible, all the more painful to me from being, conversely, so familiar, so tractable to this happy girl who let her message brush past me without my being able to penetrate its surface, who flung it on the air with a light-hearted cry: letting float in the atmosphere the delicious attar which that message had distilled, by touching them with precision, from certain invisible points in Mlle. Swann's life, from the evening to come, as it would be, after dinner, at her home,—forming, on its celestial passage through the midst of the children and their nursemaids, a little cloud, exquisitely coloured, like the cloud that, curling over one of Poussin's gardens, reflects minutely, like a cloud in the opera, teeming with chariots and horses, some apparition of the life of the gods; casting, finally, on that ragged grass, at the spot on which she stood [....]

Any girl faced with daily attention from a gorgeous boy with a cute accent and perfect hair would be hard-pressed not to develop a big,stinking, painful,all-the-time,all consuming crush. Not that that's what's happening to me. Like I said.It's a relief to know it won't happen. It makes things easier. Most girls laugh too hard at his jokes and find excuses to gently press his arm. To touch him.Instead,I argue and roll my eyes and act indifferent. And when I touch his arm,I shove it.Because that's what friends do. Besides,I have more important things on my mind: movies. I've been in France for a month, and though I have ridden the elevators to the top of La Tour Eiffel (Mer took me while St. Clair and Rashmi waited below on the lawn-St. Clair because he's afraid of falling and Rashmi because she refuses to do anything touristy), and though I have walked the viewing platform of L'Arc de Triomphe (Mer took me again,of course, while St. Clair stayed below and threatened to push Josh and Rashmi into the insane traffic circle),I still haven't been to the movies. Actually,I have yet to leave campus alone. Kind of embarrassing. But I have a plan.First,I'll convince someone to go to a theater with me. Shouldn't be too difficult; everyone likes the movies.And then I'll take notes on everything they say and do, and then I'll be comfortable going back to that theater alone.A

The Dream Lord Byron Our life is twofold; Sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality, And dreams in their development have breath, And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy; They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, They take a weight from off waking toils, They do divide our being; they become A portion of ourselves as of our time, And look like heralds of eternity; They pass like spirits of the past -they speak Like sibyls of the future; they have power - The tyranny of pleasure and of pain; They make us what we were not -what they will, And shake us with the vision that's gone by, The dread of vanished shadows -Are they so? Is not the past all shadow? -What are they? Creations of the mind? -The mind can make Substances, and people planets of its own With beings brighter than have been, and give A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. I would recall a vision which I dreamed Perchance in sleep -for in itself a thought, A slumbering thought, is capable of years, And curdles a long life into one hour. ---------- Il sogno Lord Byron Duplice è la nostra vita: il Sonno ha il suo proprio mondo, un confine tra le cose chiamate impropriamente morte e esistenza: il Sonno ha il proprio mondo, e un vasto reame di sfrenata realtà; e nel loro svolgersi i sogni hanno respiro, e lacrime e tormenti e sfiorano la gioia; lasciano un peso sui nostri pensieri da svegli, tolgono un peso dalle nostre fatiche da svegli, dividono il nostro essere; diventano parte di noi stessi e del nostro tempo, e sembrano gli araldi dell'eternità; passano come fantasmi del passato, parlano come Sibille dell'avvenire; hanno potere - la tirannia del piacere e del dolore; ci rendono ciò che non fummo, secondo il loro volere, e ci scuotono con dissolte visioni, col terrore di svanite ombre. Ma sono veramente così? Non è forse tutto un'ombra il passato? Cosa sono? Creazioni della mente? La mente sa creare sostanza, e popolare pianeti, di sua fattura, di esseri più splendenti di quelli mai esistiti, e dare respiro e forma che sopravvivono alla carne. Vorrei richiamare una visione che ho sognato forse nel sonno, poiché in sé un pensiero, un pensiero assopito, racchiude anni, e in un'ora condensa una lunga vita.

I don’t know when I started to realize that my country’s past was incomprehensible and obscure to me, a real shadowy terrain, nor can I remember the precise moment when all that i’d believed so trustworthy and predictable—the place I’d grown up, whose language I speak and customs I know, the place whose past I was taught in school and in university, whose present I have become accustomed to interpreting and pretending I understand—began to turn into a place of shadows out of whcih jumped horrible creatures as soon as we dropped our guard. With time I have come to think that this is the true reason why writers write aboutn the places of childhood and adolescence and even their early touth: you don’t write about what you know and understand, and much less do you write because you know and understand, but because you understand that all your knowledge and comprehension is false, a mirage and an illusion, so your books are not, could not be, more than elaborate displays of disorientation: extensive and multifarious declarations of preplexity. All that I thought was so clear, you then think, now turns out to be full of duplicities and hidden intentions, like a friend who betrays us. To that revelation, which is always annoying and often frankly painful, the writer responds in the only way one knows how: with a book. And that’s how you try to mitigate your disconcertion, reduce the space between what you don’t know and what can be known, and most of all resolve your profound disagreement with that unpredictable reality. “Out of the quarrel with others we make rhetoric,” wrote Yeats. “Out of the quarrel with ourselves we make poetry.” And what happens when both quarrels arise at the same time, when fighting with the world is a reflection or a transfiguration of the subterranean but constant confrontation you have with yourself? Then you write a book like the one I’m writing now, and blindly trust that the book will mean something to somebody else.