literanarchy

Blessed is an awakening that stirs beautiful memories in the heart.

It is a prison enclosed in walls of tradition, but I pass through them like an arrow.

... beauty, like fate, takes people unawares in ways of which they have never conceived.

Power could be folly, wisdom error, and wealth vanity. As for pleasure, it is pleasure, it can be nothing else.

Life passes like a swiftly unfolding dream.

Could this valley ever be wide enough to accommodate all those generations that have passed away? Death is as natural as life. What is the value of eternity as long as we eat our fill after going hungry, grow old after being young, and know despair after joy?

Yet, how beautiful life would be if he were propelled from triumph to triumph, transported from happiness to happiness. May it go that way always! If only the Fates would have mercy on man. But the obvious reality is that happiness is scarce in this world.

Can mortal man ascend to heaven with a soul still yearning for the earth?

... a priest's life is spent between question and answer – or between a question and the attempt to answer it. The question is the summary of the spiritual life.

Truly, love is an awesome thing.

Whereas the artist has no objective but to express the essence of things, and that is Beauty. For Beauty is the sublime essence of that which creates harmony among all things.

Immortality is itself a death for our dear, ephemeral lives.

Time, sadly, moves always onward – never turning back! And as it moves, it delivers the destiny decreed for each person, executing its will – whose alteration and exchange are the sole cosmic diversion easing the boredom of eternity. From it comes all that time decays, and all that is renewed; all that revels in youth, and all that moans with age unto its final demise.

It was, like all childhoods, a locked-away secret, a kind of ecstasy in a bottle – whose essence is known only to the gods, and which they guard.

For if only those suffering from loss would remember that Death is a void that effaces memory, and that the sorrows of the living vanish at the same speed with which the dead themselves disappear, how much toil and torment they could avoid for themselves!

But there's no trade union decision bound upon writers; they leave practising the art of the word only when their ability to transform with it something of the mystery of human life leaves them.

Fate is a false belief to which the strong are not fashioned to submit.