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He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

— W. B. Yeats

This matter has been put to us as the Treaty or war. I say now if it were war, I would take it gladly and gleefully, not flippantly, but gladly, because I realize that there are evils worse than war, and no physical victory can compensate for a spiritual surrender. – Miss MacSwiney

— Miss MacSwiney

  They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.

- f. scott fitzgerald

There is always in man an element that rejects love. It's the element that wants to die. It's what asks to be forgiven.

— Albert Camus
Notebooks, March 4, 1950

Eloquence, at its highest pitch, leaves little room for reason or reflection, but addresses itself entirely to the desires and affections, captivating the willing hearers, and subduing their understanding. - David Hume

— David Hume

On what should the heart base its actions? Love? Nothing is less reliable. We can know what the pains of love are like, but not love itself. Here, it is deprivation, regret, and empty hands. I shall never have the courage; I am left with anguish. A hell where everything presupposes paradise. It is hell nevertheless. What I call life and love is whatever leaves me empty. Departure, constraint, breaches of love or friendship, my heart scattered in darkness within me, this salt taste of tears and love.

 

— Albert Camus
Notebooks, March 21, 1941.

"Just phase out, breathe in, wear sandals and pretend it's a fine world."

-Charles Bukowski

 

To write, one must always remain just this side of the words (rather than go beyond them).

— Albert Camus
Notebooks 1935-1942, p. 95

For whom does this sheaf of blackbirds fly across the green sky? The blind and deaf summer which filters through and gives a purer sound to the cries of the swifts and the newsboys' shouts.

— Albert Camus
Notebooks 1935-1942, p. 90

We haven't the time to be ourselves. All we have time for is happiness.

— Albert Camus
Notebooks 1935-1942, p. 79