Can we only love something created by our own imagination? Are we all in fact unloving and unlovable? Then one is alone, and if one is alone then lover and beloved are equally unreal, and the dreamer is no more real than his dreams.
T.S. Eliot, The Cocktail Party (via theunquotables)
There is no intensity of love or feeling that does not involve the risk of crippling hurt. It is a duty to take this risk, to love and feel without defense or reserve.
William S. Burroughs (via theunquotables)
When the images of earth cling too tightly to memory, when the call of happiness becomes too insistent, it happens that melancholy rises in man’s heart: this is the rock’s victory, this is the rock itself.
Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus (via chronikos)
‘I conclude that all is well,’ says Oedipus, and that remark is sacred. It echoes in the wild and limited universe of man. It teaches that all is not, has not been, exhausted.
Albert Camus (via kolir)
As if that blind rage had washed me clean, rid me of hope; for the first time, in that night alive with signs and stars, I opened myself to the benign indifference of the world. Finding it so much like myself—so like a brother, really—I felt that I had been happy and that I was happy again. For everything to be consummated, for me to feel less alone, I had only to wish that there be a large crowd of spectators the day of my execution and that they greet me with howls of execration.
Albert Camus, The Stranger (via weltschermz)
But for the simpler among us the evil of our times can be defined by it’s effects rather than by it’s causes. That evil is the State, whether a police state or a bureaucratic state. Its proliferation in all countries under cover of the most varied ideological pretexts, the revolting security granted it by mechanical and psychological means of repression make of the State a mortal danger for everything that is best in each of us.
Albert Camus (via my-southernsoul)
One hundred and fifty years of metaphysical rebellion and of nihilism have witnessed the persistent reappearance, under different guises, of the same ravaged countenance: the face of human protest. All of them, decrying the human condition and its creator, have affirmed the solitude of man and the nonexistence of any kind of morality
Albert Camus, The Rebel (via albertbeauchardcamus)