“For those who believe in God, most of the big questions are answered. But for those of us who can’t readily accept the God formula, the big answers don’t remain stone-written. We adjust to new conditions and discoveries. We are pliable. Love need not be a command nor faith a dictum. I am my own god. We are here to unlearn the teachings of the church, state, and our educational system. We are here to drink beer. We are here to kill war. We are here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that Death will tremble to take us.”—Charles Bukowski
Making my way past the temporary obstacle of metal and glass amongst an ocean of grass, the presence of people was not a necessity. The sun will shine, the mountains will stand, the rain will fall, the streams will whisper and they will not miss us.
“It is there, reinforced by the fact that radio contact with the Earth abruptly cuts off at the instant I disappear behind the moon, I am alone now, truly alone, and absolutely isolated from any known life. I am it. If a count were taken, the score would be three billion plus two over on the other side of the moon, and one plus God knows what on this side.”—Michael Collins, pilot of Command Module Columbia in Apollo 11
“Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.”—Invictus, William Ernest Henley
“Simon: I’m trying to put this as delicately as I can… How do I know you won’t kill me in my sleep?
Mal: You don’t know me, son, so let me explain this to you once: If I ever kill you, you’ll be awake. You’ll be facing me, and you’ll be armed.
Simon: Are you always this sentimental?
Mal: I had a good day.
Simon: You had the Alliance on you, criminals and savages… Half the people on the ship have been shot or wounded including yourself, and you’re harboring known fugitives.
Mal: Well, we’re still flying.
Simon: That’s not much.
Mal: It’s enough.”—
“Without pain, how could we know joy?’ This is an old argument in the field of thinking about suffering and its stupidity and lack of sophistication could be plumbed for centuries but suffice it to say that the existence of broccoli does not, in any way, affect the taste of chocolate.”—John Green
the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
and nobody finds the
crawling in and out
the bone and the
for more than
there’s no chance
we are all trapped
by a singular
nobody ever finds
the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill
I would change for you but, babe, that doesn’t mean I’m gonna be a better man
Give the ocean what I took from you so one day you could find it in the sand
And hold it in your hands again
Cold ways kill cool lovers
Strange ways we used each other
Why won’t you fall back in love with me?
There ain’t no way we’re gonna find another
The way we sleep all summer
So why won’t you fall back in love with me?
Il faut être toujours ivre. Tout est là : c’est l’unique question. Pour ne pas sentir l’horrible fardeau du temps qui brise vos épaules et vous penche vers la terre, il faut vous enivrer sans trêve. Mais de quoi? De vin, de poésie ou de vertu, à votre guise. Mais enivrez vous.
Et si quelquefois, sur les marches d’un palais, sur l’herbe verte d’un fossé, dans la solitude morne de votre chambre, vous vous réveillez, l’ivresse déjà diminuée ou disparue, demandez au vent, à la vague, à l’étoile, à l’oiseau, à l’horloge, à tout ce qui fuit, à tout ce qui gémit, à tout ce qui roule, à tout ce qui chante, à tout ce qui parle, demandez quelle heure il est ; et le vent, la vague, l’étoile, l’oiseau, l’horloge, vous répondront :
"Il est l’heure de s’enivrer !
Pour n’être pas les esclaves martyrisés du temps, enivrez vous sans cesse !
De vin, de poésie ou de vertu, à votre guise
“I understood that the world was nothing: a mechanical chaos of casual, brute enmity on which we stupidly impose our hopes and fears. I understood that, finally and absolutely, I alone exist. All the rest, I saw, is merely what pushes me, or what I push against, blindly—as blindly as all that is not myself pushes back.”—John Gardner, Grendel
“And who are you, the proud lord said,
that I must bow so low?
Only a cat of a different coat,
that’s all the truth I know.
In a coat of gold or a coat of red,
a lion still has claws,
And mine are long and sharp, my lord,
as long and sharp as yours.
And so he spoke, and so he spoke,
that lord of Castamere,
But now the rains weep o’er his hall,
with no one there to hear.
Yes now the rains weep o’er his hall,
and not a soul to hear.”—The Rains of Castamere
“I had forgotten the glass, but I could hands can see cooling fingers invisible swan-throat where less than Moses rod the glass touch tentative not to drumming lean cool throat drumming cooling the metal the glass full overfull cooling the glass the fingers flushing sleep leaving the taste of dampened sleep in the long silence of the throat I returned up the corridor, walking the lost feet in whispered battalions in the silence, into the gasoline, the watch telling its furious lie on the dark table. Then the curtains breathing out of the dark upon my face, leaving the breathing upon my face. A quarter hour yet. And then I’ll not be. The peacefullest words. Peacefullest words. Non fui. Sum. Fui. Non sum.”—The Sound and the Fury, Faulkner
The night is kind to me. To walk under lamps and watch the steam of your breath mirror that of the smokestack. Under the blanketed dimness, low clouds reflect light from above, and illuminate glistening drops of precipitation; low, swaying branches bow under weight of new-found life.
It’s so quiet, yet the night is filled with the sounds of rain. Absent are the day voices, replaced with the chorus of the pitter-patter; a subdued caucophony sliding down from the rooftops and gutters for a solo audience.
It’s why I love the night; the rain - the gentle dull pain of being alone.
“No, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one’s existence—that which makes its truth, its meaning—its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live, as we dream—alone.”—Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness
“Pouring more vodka, he says, “Some of the happiest moments in my life have been spent yakking away under the influence, blabbing to some new acquaintance about nothing in particular. The alcohol was then a medicine, quelling for a time whatever it is in me that keeps me isolated within myself, and allowing me to really enjoy talking with other people. I’m not sure I ever understood my solitude.”— Better by John O’ Brien