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A poet is an unhappy being whose heart it torn by secret sufferings, but whose lips are so strangely formed that when the sighs and the cries escape them, they sound like beautiful music... and then people crowd about the poet and say to him: "Sing for us soon again;" that is as much as to say. "May new sufferings torment your soul.
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There are always reasons for murdering a man. But there is no justification for his existence.
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Don't walk behind me, I may not lead. Don't walk in front of me, I may not follow. Just walk beside me and be my friend.
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People demand freedom of speech to make up for the freedom of thought which they avoid.
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Live to the point of tears.
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Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.
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Fixed ideas are like a cramp in the foot - the best remedy against it is to tread on it.
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The most painful state of living is remembering the future.
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He who despairs over an event is a coward, but he who holds hope for the human condition is a fool.
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Alas! While the speculative honourable professor explains the entire existence has he in distraction forgotten his own name, that he is a man, purely and simply a man, not a fantastic 3
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In the depth of winter, I learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.
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Life has its own hidden forces which you can only discover by living.
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Of all tyrannies democracy is the most agonizing, the most inane, the absolute fall of everything great and elevated.
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In the vast reaches of the dry, cold night, thousands of stars were constantly appearing, and their sparkling icicles, loosened at once, began to slip gradually toward the horizon.
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In the midst of winter, I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer.
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There are many people who reach their conclusions about life like schoolboys: they cheat their master by copying the answer out of a book without having worked the sum out for themselves.
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When you have once seen the glow of happiness on the face of a beloved person, you know that a man can have no vocation but to awaken that light on the faces surrounding him. In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.
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Far from idleness being the root of all evil, it is rather the only true good.
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To be free from the truth is indeed to be excluded, and to be excluded by oneself is indeed to be bound.
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And when the hourglass has run out, the hourglass of temporality, when the noise of secular life has grown silent and its restless or ineffectual activism has come to an end, when everything around you is still, as it is in eternity, then eternity asks you and every individual in these millions and millions about only one thing: whether you have lived in despair or not.
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If there is a sin against life, it consists perhaps not so much in despairing of life as in hoping for another life and in eluding the implacable grandeur of this life.
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I have never been able, really, to regret anything in all my life. I have always been far much too absorbed in the present moment or the immediate future to think back.
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In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.
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In addition to my other numerous acquaintances, I have one more intimate confidant. My depression is the most faithful mistress I have known -- no wonder, then, that I return the love.
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If a man cannot forget, he will never amount to much.
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