I would like that you would come to me in winter evening and, tightened together behind the glasses, looking at the loneliness of the dark and frosted roads, we remembered the winters of fables, where we lived togheter without knowing it.
Within a sun beam that come inside from the window, sometimes we see the life in the air. And we call it dust.
It is indeed my opinion now that evil in never "radical," that is only extreme, and that it possesses neither depth nor any demonic dimension. It can overgrow and lay waste the whole world precisely because it spreads like a fungus on the surface. It is "thought-defying," as I said, because thought tries to reach some depth, to go to the roots, and the moment it concerns itslef with evil, it is frustrated because there is nothing. That is its "banality." Only the good has depth and can be radical.
Then I feel that I have given away my whole soul to someone who treats it as if it were a flower to put in his coat, a bit of decoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for a summer's day.
'Or may I not command my own servants?'
'You may,' said Gandalf. 'But others may contest your will, when it is turned to madness and evil.'
What were the use of my creation, if I were entirely contained here? My great miseries in this world have been Heathcliff's miseries, and I watched and felt each from the beginning: my great thought in living is himself. If all else perished, and HE remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it. - My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I'm well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I AM Heathcliff! He's always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being. So don't talk of our separation again: it is impracticable; and...
I ignored the pleasure that the written word may bring, the pleasure of penetrating within the secrets of the soul, of abandoning oneself to imagination, to the beauty and mistery of literary invention.
Nothing hurts, poisons, makes you ill, as disappointment does.
Because disappointment is a pain that derives from vanished hope, a defeat that is always born from betrayed trust, from the turn-face of someone or something in which we believed. And being subjected to it you keel tricked, mocked, humiliated. The victim of an injustice that you weren't expecting, of a failure that you didn't deserve. You feel offended, ridiculous, and sometimes you seek revenge. A choice that can give some relief, let's admit, but that rarely goes with joy and that often costs more than forgiveness.
And he piled upon the whale's white hump the sum of all the rage and hate felt by his whole race. If his chest had been a cannon, he would have shot his heart upon it.
Tear the beauty to the world, everywhere it is and give it to who you it is nearby: that's why I'm here.