A savage desire for strong emotions and sensations burns inside me: a rage against this soft-tinted, shallow, standardized and sterilized life, and a mad craving to smash something up, a department store, say, or a cathedral, or myself.
Steppenwolf // Hermann Hesse
He’s more myself than I am.
Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.
Wuthering Heights // Emily Brontë
And yet, how eloquent she was, letting her eyes, her breathing… express what they must, unable to keep them from expressing what they must.
And how simple, how sublimely familiar was the tale her body told.
// Kurt Vonnegut
I have been traversing the sunless territory of non-identity.
A strange land.
// Virginia Woolf
Often we pass beside happiness without seeing it, without looking at it, or even if we have seen and looked at it, without recognizing it.
The Count of Monte Cristo // Alexandre Dumas
I tell you: one must still have chaos in one, to give birth to a dancing star.
I tell you: you have still chaos in you.
Thus Spoke Zarathustra // Friedrich Nietzsche
Just about every great, brave, or beautiful thing in our culture was created by someone who didn’t do it for the money.
Whatcha Gonna Do With That Duck? // Seth Godin
Man can will nothing unless he has first understood that he must count on no one but himself; that he is alone, abandoned on earth in the midst of his infinite responsibilities, without help, with no other aim than the one he sets himself, with no other destiny than the one he forges for himself on this earth.
// Jean-Paul Sartre
Water does not resist. Water flows. When you plunge your hand into it, all you feel is a caress. Water is not a solid wall, it will not stop you. But water always goes where it wants to go, and nothing in the end can stand against it. Water is patient. Dripping water wears away a stone. Remember that, my child. Remember you are half water. If you can’t go through an obstacle, go around it. Water does.
The Penelopiad // Margaret Atwood
Deep in her soul, however, she was waiting for something to happen. Like a sailor in distress, she would gaze out over the solitude of her life with desperate eyes, seeking some white sail in the mists of the far-off horizon. She did not know what this chance event would be, what wind would drive it to her, what shore it would carry her to, whether it was a longboat or a three-decked vessel, loaded with anguish or filled with happiness up to the portholes.
But each morning, when she awoke, she hoped it would arrive that day, and she would listen to every sound, spring to her feet, feel surprised that it had not come; then at sunset, always more sorrowful, she would wish the next day were already there.
Madame Bovary // Gustave Flaubert