Action and personal happiness have no truck with each other; they are eternally at war.
Already Buenos Aires was dyeing the horizon with pink fires, soon to flaunt its diadem of jewels, like some fairy hoard.
A single radio post still heard him. The only link between him and the world was a wave of music, a minor modulation. Not a lament, no cry, yet purest of sounds that ever spoke despair.
Egli era libero, ma infinitamente libero, fino a non sentirsi pesare sulla terra. Gli mancava quel peso delle relazioni umane che ostacola il passo, gli mancavano quelle lacrime, quegli addii, quelle gioie, quei rimproveri, tutto ciò che un uomo accarezza o distrugge ad ogni gesto che accenna, quei mille vincoli che lo appesantiscono legandolo agli altri.
Even our misfortunes are a part of our belongings.
Even though human life may be the most precious thing on earth, we always behave as if there were something of higher value than human life.
Heavy clouds were putting out the stars
If a composer suffers from loss of sleep and his sleeplessness induces him to turn out masterpieces, what a profitable loss it is!
In a flash, the very instant he had risen clear, the pilot found a peace that passed his understanding. Not a ripple tilted the plane but, like a ship that has crossed the bar, it moved across a tranquil anchorage. In an unknown and secret corner of the sky it floated, as in a harbor of the Happy Isles. Below him still the storm was fashioning another world, thridded with squalls and cloudbursts and lightnings, but turning to the stars a face of crystal snow.
In every crowd are certain persons who seem just like the rest, yet they bear amazing messages.
It is a matter of life and death for us; for the lead we gain by day on ships and railways is lost each night.
It's hard luck always having to be a judge.
La mort de mon enfant, je ne l'ai pas encore comprise, Ce sont les petites choses qui sont dures, ses vêtements que je retrouve, et, si je me réveille la nuit, cette tendresse qui me monte quand même au cur, désormais inutile, comme mon lait... (p149)
Le règlement, pensait Rivière, est semblable aux rites d'une religion qui semblent absurdes mais façonnent les hommes. (p. 46)
No destiny attacks us from outside. But, within him, man bears his fate and there comes a moment when he knows himself vulnerable; and then, as in a vertigo, blunder upon blunder lures him.
Nós não pedimos para ser eternos, mas apenas para não ver os atos e as coisas perderem subitamente o seu sentido. O vazio que nos rodeia faz-se então sentir...
One nation is weakened by a victory, another finds new forces in defeat
She knew this man's smile, his gentle ways of love, but not his godlike fury in the storm. She might snare him in a fragile net of music, love and flowers, but, at each departure, he would break forth without, it seemed to her, the least regret.
Si la vie humaine n'a pas de prix, nous agissons toujours comme si quelque chose dépassait, en valeur, la vie humaine... Mais quoi ? (p. 130)
Then, as tonight, he had felt lonely, but soon had learnt the bounty of such loneliness. The music had breathed to him its message, to him alone amongst these ordinary folk, whispered its gentle secret. And now the star. Across the shoulders of these people a voice was speaking to him in a tongue that he alone could understand".
The villages were lighting up, constellations that greeted each other across the dusk. And, at the touch of his finger, his flying-lights flashed back a greeting to them. The earth grew spangled with light signals as each house lit its star, searching the vastness of the night as a lighthouse sweeps the sea. Now every place that sheltered human life was sparkling. And it rejoiced him to enter into this one night with a measured slowness, as into an anchorage.
We do not pray for immortality, but only not to see our acts and all things stripped suddenly of all their meaning; for then it is the utter emptiness of everything reveals itself.