Attention alone — that attention which is so full that the ‘I’ disappears — is required of me. I have to deprive all that I call ‘I’ of the light of my attention and turn it on to that which cannot be conceived. Simone Weil (1909 – 1943)

Attention alone — that attention which is so full that the ‘I’ disappears — is required of me. I have to deprive all that I call ‘I’ of the light of my attention and turn it on to that which cannot be conceived. Simone Weil (1909 – 1943)
And as to you Death, and you bitter hug of mortality, it is idle to try to alarm me… And as to you Corpse I think you are good manure, but that does not offend me, I smell the white roses sweet-scented and growing, I reach to the leafy lips, I reach to the polish’d breasts of melons. And as […]
Life is a dream. Death is an awakening. Leo Tolstoy (1828 – 1910)
O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain! My tables — meet it is I set it down, That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain; At least I’m sure it may be so in Denmark. William Shakespeare (1564 – 1616)
I sometimes wonder whether all pleasures are not substitutes for joy. C. S. Lewis (1898 – 1963)
Remember thee! Yea, from the table of my memory I’ll wipe away all trivial fond records, All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past, That youth and observation copied there; And thy commandment all alone shall live Within the book and volume of my brain, Unmix’d with baser matter: yes, by heaven! William Shakespeare (1564 – 1616)
Do not, as some ungracious pastors do, Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven; Whiles, like a puff’d and reckless libertine, Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads, And recks not his own rede. William Shakespeare (1564 – 1616)
Like madness is the glory of this life. William Shakespeare (1564 – 1616)
Till now you have gone on and fill’d the time With all licentious measure, making your wills The scope of justice; till now myself and such As slept with our traversed arms, and breathed Our sufferance vainly: now the time is flush, When crouching marrow in the bearer strong Cries of itself, “No more.” William Shakespeare (1564 – 1616)
But tell me true — For I must ever doubt, though ne’er so sure — Is not thy kindness subtle, covetous, If not a usuring kindness, and, as rich men deal gifts, Expecting in return twenty for one? William Shakespeare (1564 – 1616)