Book Of Disquiet Quotes
The best sayings about Book Of Disquiet that you can share on Instagram, Pinterest, Facebook and other social networks!
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To have opinions is to sell out to youself. To have no opinions is to exist. To have every opinion is to be a poet.
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I don't mourn the loss of my childhood; I mourn because everything, including (my) childhood, is lost.
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No intelligent idea can gain general acceptance unless some stupidity is mixed in with it.
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What has happened to us has happened to everyone or only to us; if to everyone, then it's no novelty, and if only to us, then it won't be understood.
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Tomorrow I too – this feeling and thinking soul, the universe I am to myself – yes, tomorrow I too will be someone who no longer walks these streets, someone others will evoke with a vague: 'I wonder what's become of him?” And everything I do, everything I feel, everything I experience, will be just one less passer-by on the daily streets of some city or other.
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Through an experience that simultaneously involved my sensibility and intelligence, I realized early on that the imaginative life, however morbid it might seem, is the one that suits temperaments like mine. The fictions of my imagination (as it later developed) may weary me, but they don't hurt or humiliate. Impossible lovers can't cheat on us, or smile at us falsely, or be calculating in their caresses. They never forsake us, and they don't die or disappear. --The book of Disquiet
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...the painful intensity of my sensations, even when they're happy ones; the blissful intensity of my sensations, even when they're sad.
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I feel as if I'm always on the verge of waking up.
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I wasn’t meant for reality, but life came and found me.
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Should I be what I think? But I think about being so many things!
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Talking to people makes me feel like sleeping. Only my ghostly and imaginary friends, only the conversations I have in my dreams, are genuinely real and substantial.
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I bear the wounds of all the battles I avoided.
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I'm sick of everything, and of the everythingness of everything.
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I don't know what I feel or what I want to feel. I don't know what to think or what I am.
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If I write what I feel, it's to reduce the fever of feeling. What I confess is unimportant, because everything is unimportant.
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My soul is impatient with itself, as with a bothersome child; its restlessness keeps growing and is forever the same. Everything interests me, but nothing holds me. I attend to everything, dreaming all the while.
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I am nothing. I'll never be anything. I couldn't want to be something. Apart from that, I have in me all the dreams in the world.
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Could it think, the heart would stop beating.
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My soul is a hidden orchestra; I know not what instruments, what fiddlestrings and harps, drums and tamboura I sound and clash inside myself. All I hear is the symphony.
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I've never done anything but dream. This, and this alone, has been the meaning of my life. My only real concern has been my inner life.
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When all by myself, I can think of all kinds of clever remarks, quick comebacks to what no one said, and flashes of witty sociability with nobody. But all of this vanishes when I face someone in the flesh: I lose my intelligence, I can no longer speak, and after half an hour I just feel tired. Talking to people makes me feel like sleeping. Only my ghostly and imaginary friends, only the conversations I have in my dreams, are genuinely real and substantial.
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I've always been an ironic dreamer, unfaithful to my inner promises. Like a complete outsider, a casual observer of whom I thought I was, I've always enjoyed watching my daydreams go down in defeat. I was never convinced of what I believed in. I filled my hands with sand, called it gold, and opened them up to let it slide through. Words were my only truth. When the right words were said, all was done; the rest was the sand that had always been.
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I'm astounded whenever I finish something. Astounded and distressed. My perfectionist instinct should inhibit me from finishing; it should inhibit me from even beginning. But I get distracted and start doing something. What I achieve is not the product of an act of my will but of my will's surrender. I begin because I don't have the strength to think; I finish because I don't have the courage to quit. This book is my cowardice.
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Friends: not one. Just a few acquaintances who imagine they feel something for me and who might be sorry if a train ran over me and the funeral was on a rainy day.
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Look, there's no metaphysics on earth but chocolates.
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I've always rejected being understood. To be understood is to prostitute oneself. I prefer to be taken seriously for what I'm not, remaining humanly unknown, with naturalness and all due respect
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There are ships sailing to many ports, but not a single one goes where life is not painful.
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Ah, it's my longing for whom I might have been that distracts and torments me!
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The essence of what I desire is simply this: to sleep away life.
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And, like the great damned souls, I shall always feel that thinking is worth more than living.
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