--> The Literary Condition
The only regret I will have in dying is if it is not for love.
— Gabriel Garcia Marquez (1927-2014), Love in the Time of Cholera  (via livefromthenypl)
There is always something left to love.
— Gabriel Garcí­a Márquez (via drunk-on-books)
Nobody deserves your tears, but whoever deserves them will not make you cry.
— Gabriel Garcia Marquez (via recumbentibous)
I reflected how many satisfied, happy people there really are! What a suffocating force it is! You look at life: the insolence and idleness of the strong, the ignorance and brutishness of the weak, incredible poverty all about us, overcrowding, degeneration, drunkenness, hypocrisy, lying… Yet all is calm and stillness in the houses and in the streets; of the fifty thousand living in a town, there´s not one who would cry out, who would give vent to his indignation aloud. We see the people going to market for provisions, eating by day, sleeping by night, talking their silly nonsense, getting married, growing old, serenely escorting their dead to the cemetery; but we do not see and we do not hear those who suffer, and what is terrible in life goes on somewhere behind the scenes…Everything is so quiet and peaceful, and nothing protests but mute statistics: so many people gone out of their minds, so many gallons of vodka drunk, so many children dead from malnutrition… And this order of things is evidently necessary; evidently the happy man only feels at ease because the unhappy bear their burdens in silence, and without that silence happiness would be impossible.
— Anton Chekhov (via blackestdespondency)
Es blitzt ein Tropfen Morgentau im Strahl des Sonnenlichts; ein Tag kann eine Perle sein und ein Jahrhundert nichts.
— Gottfried Keller (via ingeniumeloquentiae)
Two people in love, alone, isolated from the world, that’s beautiful.
— Milan Kundera (via observando)
A head full of stars, just not in constellation yet.
— Elias Canetti (via kudou-kun)
We sometimes have a flash of understanding that amounts to the insight of genius, and yet it slowly withers, even in our hands - like a flower. The form remains, but the colours and the fragrance are gone.
Robert Musil, The Confusions of Young Törless (via satyrica)
Perhaps there does exist a dark power which fastens on to us and leads us off along a dangerous and ruinous path which we would otherwise not have trodden; but if so, this power must have assumed within us the form of ourself, indeed have become ourself, for otherwise we would not listen to it, otherwise there would be no space within us in which it could perform its secret work.

E.T.A. Hoffmann; “The Sandman” [1817]

Translation: R.J. Hollingdale

(via beneaththeicyfloe)

A word left careless on a page
May consecrate an eye,
When folded in perpetual seam
The wrinkled author lie.
Emily Dickinson, from 1261
(via litafficionado)
"The word ennui is doubtless too weak to describe the fits of intolerable depression to which I have been subject ever since I can remember; they overcome one suddenly; something indefinable in the air starts them; a second before, all was smiling, all was enjoyable; suddenly a murky vapor rises from the depths of the soul and interposes itself between desire and life; it forms a kind of livid screen that separates us from the rest of the world, whose warmth, love, color, and harmony can now only reach us as a refracted, warped, transposed abstraction; we are aware of things, but they fail to move us, and the desperate effort to break through the screen that thus isolates our soul, might well lead us into any sort of crime—murder or suicide, or madness…”
-André Gide, from Isabelle

If you only knew the concentrated bitterness I strive to hide by all this nonsense. By the bye, do you know whether I am sincere in telling you this?

//

I sometimes am struck with an astonished fear at my inspirations, at my thoughts, realizing how little of myself is mine.

Fernando Pessoa, from Aforismos e Afins (via litafficionado)

Quoted in The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry

Quoted in The HarperCollins Book of English Poetry

एक दर्द था जो मैंने सिगरेट की तरह चुपचाप पिया है
सिर्क कुछ नज्में हैं जो सिगरेट से मैंने राख की तरह झाडी हैं
//
There was a grief I smoked
in silence, like a cigarette
only a few poems fell
out of the ash I flicked from it
Amrita Pritam(English translation by Jennifer Barber and Irfan Malik)
It’s not possible to comfort every grief, there is some grief that ends only after the exhaustion of the heart, in long oblivion or in the distraction of the cares of daily living.
— Andrei Platonov, “The Potudan River” (via choicewords)