Happiness is excitement that has found a settling down place, but there is always a little corner that keeps flapping around.
You can best serve civilization by being against what usually passes for it.
Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patters that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.
We are here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that Death will tremble to take us.
Think you’re escaping and run into yourself. Longest way round is the shortest way home.
James Joyce, ‘Ulysses’
One’s destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things.
Self interest exists, attachment based on personal gain exists, complacency exists. But not love. Love has to be reinvented.
I want to stand as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all the kinds of things you can’t see from the center.
So also there are tides and floods in the affairs of men, which in some are slight and may be kept within bounds, but in others they overmaster everything.
For I have known them all already, known them all—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.
T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock