But I repeat for the hundredth time, there is one case, one only, when man may consciously, purposely, desire what is injurious to himself, what is stupid, very stupid — simply in order to have the right to desire for himself even what is very stupid and not to be bound by an obligation to desire only what is sensible.
- Fyodor Dostoevsky, Notes from the Underground
I feel a sadness I expected and which comes only from myself. I say I’ve always been sad. That I can see the same sadness in photos of myself when I was small. That today, recognizing it as the sadness I’ve always had, I could almost call it by my own name, it’s so like me.
- Marguerite Duras, from The Lover
(Source: violentwavesofemotion, via mirroir)
You ask me why I spend my life writing?
Do I find entertainment?
Is it worthwhile?
Above all, does it pay?
If not, then, is there a reason…?
I write only because
There is a voice within me
That will not be still.
- Sylvia Plath
A not admitting of the wound
Until it grew so wide
That all my Life had entered it
- Emily Dickinson, from “
” (via proustitute
I used to analyze myself down to the last thread, used to compare myself with others, recalled all the smallest glances, smiles and words of those to whom I’d tried to be frank, interpreted everything in a bad light, laughed viciously at my attempts ‘to be like the rest’ –and suddenly, in the midst of my laughing, I’d give way to sadness, fall into ludicrous despondency and once again start the whole process all over again – in short, I went round and round like a squirrel on a wheel.
- Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Crime and Punishment
Don’t listen to those motivational speakers. If at first it doesn’t work, don’t try again. Quit. Just quit.
- Calculus professor on integration (via mathprofessorquotes
I am very sad and I feel more miserable than I can say, and I do not know how far I’ve come. I do not know what to do or what to think, but vehemently desire to leave this place. I feel so melancholy.
- Vincent van Gogh, from Letters (1875-1890)
(Source: oiseauperdu, via mirroir)
They turn the key in the door, take out
their old, well-hidden letters,
read them quietly, then drag
their feet a final time.
Their life has been a tragedy, they say.
God! people’s frightful laughter,
and the tears, the sweat, nostalgia
of the skies, the landscape’s solitude.
They stand there by the window, gazing at
the trees, the children, all of nature,
at the marble-workers hammering away,
the sun that wants to set forever.
It’s over. Here’s the note —
appropriately short, profound, and simple,
full of indifference and forgiveness
for whoever’s going to weep and read it.
They look in the mirror, look at the time,
ask if it’s madness maybe, a mistake.
"It’s over now" they murmur;
deep down, of course, they’re going to put it off.