The light which puts out our eyes is darkness to us. Only that day dawns to which we are awake. There is more day to dawn. The sun is but a morning star.
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
Tomas turned the key and switched on the ceiling light. Tereza saw two beds pushed together, one of them flanked by a bedside table and lamp. Up out of the lampshade, startled by the overhead light, flew a large nocturnal butterfly that began circling the room. The strains of the piano and violin rose up weakly from below.
You finally fall asleep. And when you wake up, it's true. You are part of a brand-new world.
If a little man appears who laughs, who has golden hair and who refuses to answer questions, you will know who he is. If this should happen, please comfort me. Send me word that he has come back.
An intimation of death came to him, and an intimation of deathless love. Something welled up within him; and the thought of the dead woman stirred in his mind, bodiless and passionate, like the sound of distant music.
Has not the count just told us that all human wisdom is summed up in two words?--- Wait and hope.
But we, when we put the thorns in our breasts, we know. We understand. And still we do it. Still we do it.
She was gone, and I lost about half memory of her. If one day I was gone, all the memory of her would gone with me. Yes, he think: if I have to choose one from sorrow and nothing, I will choose sorrow.
Only, many years ago, a hand wrote upon it in pencil these four lines, which have become gradually illegible beneath the rain and the dust, and which are, to-day, probably effaced:Il dort. Quoique le sort fut pour lui bien etrange, Il vivait. Il mourut quand il n eut plus son ange. La chose simplement d elle-meme arriva, Comme la nuit se fait lorsque le jour s en va.
It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done;
It is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known.
After all, tomorrow is another day.
Up the road, in his shack, the old man was sleeping again. He was still sleeping on his face and the boy was sitting by him watching him.
The old man was dreaming about the lions.
About all I know is, I sort of miss everybody I told about. Even old Stradlater and Ackley, for instance. I think I even miss that goddam Maurice. It s funny. Don t ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.
I ran. A grown man running with a swarm ofscreaming children. But I didn t care. I ran with the wind blowing in my face,and a smile as wide as the Valley of Panjsher on my lips.
I am not the apostle of vice, but I wouldgladly be the echo of noble sorrow wherever I bear its voice in prayer.The story of Marguerite isan exception, I repeat; had it not been an exception, it would not have been worth the trouble of writing it.
I lingered round them, under that benign sky: watched the moths fluttering among the heath and harebells,listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass, and wondered how anyonecould ever imagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth.
Everything transitory, is only approximation; what could not be achieved, here comes to pass; what no-onecould describe, is here accomplished; the Eternal Feminine, draws us afloat.
Everything written on them was unrepeatable since time immemorial and forever more, because races condemned toone hundred years of solitude did not have a second opportunity on earth.