Love is like a buried treasure for us, we do not know about it anything, the thing is in the occasion.
Love is like a buried treasure for us, we do not know about it anything, the thing is in the occasion.
What to do, if “the air is poisoned, but it is the only air that is given to me to breathe with…”? Shouldn’t I adapt to it my lungs (since it is “the only one”) and adapt my soul to life in which love does not fit? But the soul is scared. She thinks that she dies. She withers.
Again – love her in Heaven and… practice adultery on Earth.
A man sees in every woman what he wants to make out of her and usually makes out of her what she does not want to be.
Man his own thirty years lived like a human – ate, drank, fought in the war, danced at weddings, loved young women and girls. As donkey worked fifteen years, acquired wealth. A fifteen dog-like years he kept his wealth, always told lies and was angry, did not sleep at night. And then he became such a nasty and old, like the monkey. And all shook their heads and laughed at his old age.
Patriotism is not in lush exclamations on public places, but in the warm feeling of love for fatherland, which is able to speak without the shout and is found not in one excitement about the good, but also in painful hostility to the bad, that inevitably happens in all lands, therefore, in every fatherland.
Bored, depressed by the terror of a duel, Van Konet, hypocriting carefully and gently, began to play the role of a loving person – one of the most difficult roles, if the heart of the player is not touched by at least sympathy. If it laughs, and love of the girl is reckless, the success of the game is provided – no hesitation either in words or in positions: be calm, suspiciously plain-tempered, even morose and lethargic – a woman’s heart will find an explanation for everything, justify all and accept the blame for herself.
Where is the name for you? The mortal art expresses your charm not much! Lyra is not for you! What songs? Incorrect aftersounds of late rumors about you! If the heart could be heard by it, every sense would be a hymn to you! The beauty of your life, this pure holy image I keep in the heart like a mystery. I can only love; to say, how deep are you loved, – maybe can only eternity alone!
He did not know what held her for, he did not give himself the report, why he longed so irresistibly to kiss her, kiss her all over, but he kissed her weeping, sobbing and watering with his tears, and vowed passionately to love her, to love her for ever and ever. “Water the earth with tears of your joy and love those tears …” – echoed in his soul. What was he crying about? Oh, he was crying in his rapture even about those stars that shine to him out of the abyss, and “was not ashamed of ecstasy.” As if the threads from all those innumerable worlds of God came together at once in his heart, and she was trembling, “contacting with other worlds.” He longed to forgive everyone and everything and ask for forgiveness, oh! not himself, but for everyone, for everything and for all, and “for me others ask” – echoed again in his soul. But every moment he felt clear and tangibly as it were, as something solid and unshakable as that vault of heaven had entered into his soul. Some-like-idea seized the sovereignty of his mind – and have done it for life and for all eternity. He fell to the earth as a weak boy, and stood firm fighter for a lifetime and he knew and felt it suddenly, at that very moment his delight. And never could Alyosha forget in his whole life and then that moment. “Someone has visited my soul in that hour,” – he said then with a firm belief in their own words …
My mind is constantly being cleaned. I’m starting to see that people go to work not for lofty goals, – they raise their children, fish, love, quarrel; life as it is means for them more than work. The development of microelectronics excites nobody in particular. I, with my ideology, look as an outsider here. I was intoxicated by destiny, by my machines, and yet nothing shall remain of them, progress will devour everything. What we have done will be the day before yesterday lunch. And I have sacrificed everything … I recently dreamed about Ann, and I saw something with which we began: seductive scar on her cheek, the trace of our total construction fever on Itaka … I do not know whether we will be able to live that long … No matter how much thought, I came up with only one: progress – is to increase the duration of human life. But everything else – advances of technics, science, politics – it is difficult to understand whether they are better for a human or worse.
Inspiration – like first love, when heart is pounding in anticipation of surprising meetings, inconceivably beautiful eyes, smiles and innuendo.
The woman who is not an object of jealousy, does not feel loved.
– Gentlemen! Let me allow myself — he added suddenly, — to ask you with all my heart, leaving your occasional feuds, come together in love and a related agreement with the prayer to the Lord, for our humble refectory…
The mind looks with thousands of eyes, love looks by one.
Kinfolk are like that: we are obliged to caress them, love, mentally respect them; and, according to the custom of the nation, visit them on Christmas Day or congratulate them by mail. So the rest of the year they did not think about us…
Our life is divided into two periods: the first is held in the future and the second in the past. Until some years, in the expectations of his pride, a man is looking forward to the idea: “There, there fate awaits me, worthy of my heart!” The losses are of a little upset to him; the future seems to him a myriad of treasuries prepared for his pleasures. But when the fever of youth is gone, when a hundred times wounded self-love will inevitably learn humility; when hundred times disappointed by expectation we finally cease to believe it; Then, with annoyance leaving the future, we return eyes to the past and want to replace by some good memories the lost happiness of flattering expectations, saying our consolation: yes, we also have been in Arcadia! Then, and only at that time we only learn to cherish the present moment…
The more worker loves incoming holiday, the shorter is the working shift.
All of these ways: satanic, animal, human and angelic – lead to death. They lead to the death of love, anyway, and sometimes to the death of the individuality in person. In all these ways a person in a state of passive love, he does not take love into conscious will, does not perform “deeds” of love, and love let to itself, disappears like a mirage. Eros flies away. The winged god, always carrying “breath of unearthly joy,” equally flies away either from a happy father of a family, or away from passionate sensualist, or away from weak-willed young man, falling straight from his divine embrace into the arms of death. But if so, where, what is, by what is determined the path of true love? – By the fifth, the last, willed way of love – already not only human, but a divine-human, i. e. the path of ascent.
Adolescence and early youth is the flourishing of human life: at dawn a human must create spiritual fortitude for a wise and courageous human love. Yes, he is to create his own strength, the strength of his soul for love, that he wants to carry through all life, to save it from storms and hard times and to convey it till the death.
Thus, education, unconscious suggestion, is the most important. For the purpose, so it was good and moral, it is needed, terrible to say, that all life of the educator was good. What is called the good life? – They ask. The degrees of goodness are infinitely many, but exists one common and important feature of the good life: it is the desire to improve in love. Here is the thing; if it exists in educators and if it will be caught by the children, the education would be not bad.
Love of the spectator bears some cruelty. I remember how I had to play seriously ill, because the spectators required playing me particularly. When the cashier said: “She’s sick,” the audience responded: “And we have no business. We want to see her. And paid money to see her. ” And they wrote me bold notes: “This is an outrage! What is it you decided to be ill, when we want to see you so desperately? ” My God, I tell the real truth. And one day after the show, when I was forced to play “at the request of the public” being very sick, I hated once and for all my so-called “glory.”
Even the most devilish person’s face flourishes when he is told that he is loved. So, in this happiness is.
Life is arranged so devilishly skillfully that, not knowing how to hate, you cannot truly love.
Oh, people! All you are like our ancestress Eve: what is given to you, that does not attract you. You are constantly being called by the serpent to him, to his mysterious tree. Forbidden fruit is to be given to you, and without that you do not take Paradise for Paradise.
Forget service for women is inexcusable. Being captured by she-lover is worse than being a prisoner during the war; the enemy could grant you freedom, and a woman shackle is of the long-term.
Peter I the Great
On real friendship are built genuine and long marriages. Love without friendship doesn’t live long, and the friendship lives a lot longer than love.
All life is a bad joke, and if reconstruct all phenomena and recline all the empty ghosts, there will remain only one sensuality alone, – which is miserable, distorted picture of love, that sometimes with closed eyes, still, we can take for love.
Loved –> felt sorry –> calmed down.
We love to reproach others to excuse ourselves; and perhaps what is not good in us, in others is excusable.
Having given nothing, how much have you had taken from life! To this you object with scorn … And it sounds – like what? Like your inability to feel sorry for people. You have been asked for “spiritual bread”, and you offer the “stone of denial”! You have robbed the soul of life, and if great feats of love and suffering are not in it – that you’re to blame, for the servants of the mind, you have given your soul to its power, and that she has grown cold and dying, sick and impoverished! But life is still as grim, and her torture, her grief, require heroes … Where are they?