C’est tellement mystérieux, le pays des larmes.
—Antoine de Saint Exupéry (Le Petit Prince)
The destruction of words
With a secret like that, at some point the secret itself becomes irrelevant. The fact that you kept it does not.
—Sara Gruen (Water for Elephants)
Alone. Yes, that’s the key word, the most awful word in the English tongue. Murder doesn’t hold a candle to it and hell is only a poor synonym
The farther you go, however, the harder it is to return. The world has many edges, and it’s easy to fall off.
Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.
There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind.
Forgive me, comrade. We always see it too late. Why do they never tell us that you are poor devils like us, that your mothers are just as anxious as ours, and that we have the same fear of death, and the same dying and the same agony—Forgive me, comrade; how could you be my enemy?
— Erich Maria Remarque (All Quiet on the Western Front)
Every man I meet wants to protect me. I can’t figure out what from.
It hurts to let go. Sometimes it seems the harder you try to hold on to something or someone the more it wants to get away. You feel like some kind of criminal for having felt, for having wanted. For having wanted to be wanted. It confuses you, because you think that your feelings were wrong and it makes you feel so small because it’s so hard to keep it inside when you let it out and it doesn’t coma back. You’re left so alone that you can’t explain. Damn, there’s nothing like that, is there? I’ve been there and you have too. You’re nodding your head.
—Henry Rollins (The Portable Henry Rollins)