Cafiamo

If the moon, in the act of completing its eternal way around the earth, were gifted with self-consciousness, it would feel thoroughly convinced that it was travelling its way of its own accord… So would a Being, endowed with higher insight and more perfect intelligence, watching man and his doings, smile about man’s illusion that he was acting according to his own free will.

Sometimes I think the purpose of life is to reconcile us to its eventual loss by wearing us down, by proving, however long it takes, that life isn't all it's cracked up to be.

"What is History? Any thoughts, Webster?" "History is the lies of the victors,” I replied, a little too quickly. “Yes, I was rather afraid you’d say that. Well, as long as you remember that it is also the self-delusions of the defeated. Simpson?” Colin was more prepared than me. “History is a raw onion sandwich, sir.” “For what reason?” “It just repeats, sir. It burps. We’ve seen it again and again this year. Same old story, same old oscillation between tyranny and rebellion, war and peace, prosperity and impoverishment.” “Rather a lot for a sandwich to contain, wouldn’t you say?” We laughed far more than was required, with an end-of-term hysteria. “Finn?” “ ‘History is that certainty produced at the point where the imperfections of memory meet the inadequacies of documentation.’ ”

Aber wie willst denn du einmal sterben, Narziß, wenn du doch keine Mutter hast? Ohne Mutter kann man nicht lieben. Ohne Mutter kann man nicht sterben.

Es gibt keinen Frieden, so, wie du es meinst. Es gibt den Frieden, gewiss, aber nicht einen, der dauernd in uns wohnt und uns nicht mehr verlässt. Es gibt nur einen Frieden, der immer und immer wieder mit unablässigen Kämpfen erstritten wird und von Tag zu Tag neu erstritten werden muss.