The moon was shining. I thought, "I've finally come to the very depths of this miserable world!"
Takuboku Ishikawa, from “Romaji Diary & Sad Toys,” published c. 1985
Takuboku Ishikawa, from “Romaji Diary & Sad Toys,” published c. 1985
"But it was not a simple case of going out for a couple of beers and going home. That is not my story. I took it to excess. I crossed a line and I couldn’t get back. I had long periods of sobriety when I was focusing on football but I always had a drink at the end of it. I would just fall off the wagon. It was like a running joke. "
- Tony Adams
- Tony Adams
Somebody inside of me has always tried, with all his strength, to be nobody.”
— Albert Camus, from a notebook entry featured in Notebooks (1951-1959)
— Albert Camus, from a notebook entry featured in Notebooks (1951-1959)
And how much better to die in all the happy period of undisillusioned youth, to go out in a blaze of light, than to have your body worn out and old and illusions shattered.
Ernest Hemingway - Letter to his family (18 October 1918)
Ernest Hemingway - Letter to his family (18 October 1918)
“More than sky, warmth, humanity,
more than dark sorrow, the poet.
Pointless discussing the eternal,
or anything that simply isn’t.”
— Boris Ryzhy, How the Granite is Covered in Ice
more than dark sorrow, the poet.
Pointless discussing the eternal,
or anything that simply isn’t.”
— Boris Ryzhy, How the Granite is Covered in Ice
Black angel on white snow,
reduced a hundredfold by a gloomy magician.
Death is sorrowful, but to live, I cannot.
In the bleak park no one is about.
In the bleak park there is always silence,
and a pine tree — like a stranger — stands.
Lean up against it, partake of the wine,
that lies — by the heart — in the pocket.
I made to recollect; but
at first it humiliated and then it killed.
It's overly cold in this light coat.
The angel beats its black wings.
— Fly to your heaven, my dear,
and recount, as if god were still alive:
it's still, he says, winter, still peaceful,
just some fool being lonely.
Boris Ryzhy - Black angel on white snow
reduced a hundredfold by a gloomy magician.
Death is sorrowful, but to live, I cannot.
In the bleak park no one is about.
In the bleak park there is always silence,
and a pine tree — like a stranger — stands.
Lean up against it, partake of the wine,
that lies — by the heart — in the pocket.
I made to recollect; but
at first it humiliated and then it killed.
It's overly cold in this light coat.
The angel beats its black wings.
— Fly to your heaven, my dear,
and recount, as if god were still alive:
it's still, he says, winter, still peaceful,
just some fool being lonely.
Boris Ryzhy - Black angel on white snow