Stop Romanticising Loneliness
If there is anything that can be crueller than death, it's nurturing false hope in your heart just to see them crushing every piece of you at the end."
Ölümden daha acımasız bir şey varsa, o da kalbinizde sahte umutlar beslemek
ve sonunda onların gelip sizin her parçanızı birer birer paramparça ettiğini görmektir.”
Well—I have to say I personally have never drawn such a sharp line between ‘good’ and ‘bad’ as you. For me: that line is often false. The two are never disconnected. One can’t exist without the other. As long as I am acting out of love, I feel I am doing best I know how. But you—wrapped up in judgment, always regretting the past, cursing yourself, blaming yourself, asking ‘what if,’ ‘what if.’ ‘Life is cruel.’ ‘I wish I had died instead of.’ Well—think about this. What if all your actions and choices, good or bad, make no difference to God? What if the pattern is pre-set? No no—hang on—this is a question worth struggling with. What if our badness and mistakes are the very thing that set our fate and bring us round to good? What if, for some of us, we can’t get there any other way?
Her çiçeğin bir mevsimi, her kitabın bir zamanı vardır. Haziranın tadını yeni hikâyelerle çıkarın.
“At last I resorted to the greatest and most infallible means of subduing a woman's heart—a means that never fails anyone and works unfailingly on every woman without exception. It is the well-known method of flattery. There is nothing in the world more difficult than sincerity, and nothing easier than flattery. If there is even one hundredth part of a false note in sincerity, discord immediately arises, followed by scandal. But if everything in flattery is false to the very last note, it is still received and listened to with pleasure. And no matter how crude the flattery may be, at least half of it will certainly seem true.”
There was no longer any reason to exist in the world.
And yet, in certain melancholy moods, I felt forgotten. I’d fallen out of her thoughts. There was no longer any reason to exist in the world. I softly repeated the word mamma a hundred times, until it lost all meaning and was only an exercise of the lips. I was an orphan with two living mothers. One had given me up with her milk still on my tongue, the other had given me back at the age of thirteen. I was a child of separations, false or unspoken kinships, distances. I no longer knew who I came from. In my heart I don’t know even now.
False face must hide what the false heart doth know.
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
