Martin Seligman
"We are wasting our life if we think our childhood has delivered present misery or if it has made us passive about the future."
Şayet şu anki ızdırabımızın çocukluğumuzun armağanı olduğunu düşünüyor yahut bu durum bizi gelecek hakkında pasif kılıyorsa hayatımızı kendimiz mahvediyoruz demektir.
I have no more to say, but linger still,
And dare not set my seal upon this sheet,
And yet I may as well the task fulfil.
My misery can scarce be more complete:
I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill;
Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would meet.
Misery'nin göğsüne dokundu, kalbinin güçlü ve düzenli atışlarını duydu.
lan, "Sen ölseydin," diye fısıldadı. "Ben de seninle ölürdüm..."
Genç kadın onun boynuna sarılarak fısıltıyla cevap verdi. "Sus, sevgilim."
"Saçmalama. Ben buradayım. İşte, karşında... Haydi, beni öp. Eğer ölürsem buna sana karşı duyduğum istek neden olacak."
“Where there's clarity, there's no choice, and where there's choice there's misery.”
"Karanlık kötülükle değil, yalnızca bastırılmış yaşamla eş tutulmalıdır. Bu nedenle, karanlık potansiyel açısından zengindir. Bunun bilincine varmak bizi daha tam insan, daha ilginç kılar.Karanlık tarafı olmayan bir insan olağanüstü derecede yavan ve ilgi çekici değildir. En karanlık dürtülerimizin yanı sıra bastırılmış yaratıcılığımızın
"Love doesn’t even have the decency to die. It just transforms into abject misery."
Entangled : Red Tower Books
The Sorrows of Young Werther
“Sometimes I don't understand how another can love her, is allowed to love her, since I love her so completely myself, so intensely, so fully, grasp nothing, know nothing, have nothing but her!”
“Is this the destiny of man? Is he only happy before he has acquired his reason or after he has lost it?”
“What a torment it is to see so much loveliness passing and repassing before us, and yet not dare to lay hold of it!”
“Every day I observe more and more the folly of judging of others by ourselves; and I have so much trouble with myself, and my own heart is in such constant agitation, that I am well content to let others pursue their own course, if they only allow me the same privilege.”
“In happy ignorance, I sighed for a world I did not know, where I hoped to find every pleasure and enjoyment which my heart could desire; and now, on my return from that wide world... how many disappointed hopes and unsuccessful plans have I brought back!”
“Must it ever be thus-that the source of our happiness must also be the fountain of our misery? The full and ardent sentiment which animated my heart with the love of nature, overwhelming me with a torrent of delight, and which brought all paradise before me, has now become an insupportable torment, a demon which perpetually pursues and harrasses me.”
The monster saw my determination in my face, and gnashed his teeth in the impotence of anger. "Shall each man," cried he, "find a wife for his bosom, and each beast have his mate, and I be alone? I had feelings of affection, and they were requited by detestation and scorn. Man, you may hate; but beware! Your hours will pass in dread and misery, and soon the bolt will fall which must ravish from you your happiness for ever. Are you to be happy, while I grovel in the intensity of my wretchedness? You can blast my other passions; but revenge remains -- revenge, henceforth dearer than light or food! I may die; but first you, my tyrant and tormentor, shall curse the sun that gazes on your misery. Beware; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful. I will watch with the wiliness of a snake, that I may sting with its venom. Man, you shall repent of the injuries you inflict."
It is hard enough to accept that this is what the physical body amounts to. But what about a person’s anger? What about her voice? Her laughter? Her arrogance? Her irreverence? Her humor, her ego, her honor, her character? Do these fingerprints of an individual life simply evaporate and disappear with the last exhale? And if that is so, what use all this struggle, misery, and strife? What difference whether a woman ever lived or not? Whether she was loved or unloved, educated or illiterate, wanted or unwanted by her parents, whether or not she suffered hurt and betrayal, or whether she still managed to retain her humanity and nobility? In the end, Bhima thinks, it doesn’t matter. It is all ash and dust. This is what it means to be human, she thinks: grains of dust arranged in human form—some dark, some light, some tall, some short, some male, some female. And in the end, the same gust of wind breaks them all down.
There the companions of his fall, o’erwhelmed
With floods and whirlwinds of tempestuous fire,
He soon discerns, and weltering by his side
One next himself in power, and next in crime,
Long after known in Palestine, and named
Beelzebub. To whom the arch-enemy,
And thence in heaven called Satan, with bold words
Breaking the horrid silence thus
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