
How am I ever to apologize to myself sufficiently?”
— Virginia Woolf, Selected Diaries

Any human anywhere will blossom in a hundred unexpected talents and capacities simply by being given the opportunity to do so.”
— Doris Lessing (via WeCroak)

Epicurus’s old questions are still unanswered: Is he (God) willing to prevent evil, but not able? then he is impotent. Is he able, but not willing? then he is malevolent. Is he both able and willing? then whence evil?”
— David Hume

“I try to be a guide for people, to make their darkness bright and to make the pathway light, and never to condemn or control or criticize.”
— Little Richard, Dead at 87
“What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun.”
— Ecclesiastes 1:9, New International Version

Let others dispose of questions, I dispose of nothing, I arouse
unanswerable questions,
Who are they I see and touch, and what about them?
What about these likes of myself that draw me so close by tender
directions and indirections?”
— Walt Whitman, “Myself and Me”, On the Beach at Night Alone

People put up a lot of walls. Bring a sledgehammer to your life.”
— Westworld, S3E2: “The Winter Line“, HBO

I call to the world to distrust the accounts of my friends, but
listen to my enemies, as I myself do,
I charge you forever reject those who would expound me, for I
cannot expound myself,
I charge that there be no theory or school founded out of me,
I charge you to leave all free, as I have left all free.”
— Walt Whitman, “Myself and Me”, On the Beach at Night Alone

Oh, you do me wrong. Would I do anything wicked? I’m a peaceful soul, bothering nobody and leading a gentle, herbivorous life. And my thoughts merely drift among the oddities and quarks of how things are (as I see them). I, humble observer of phenomena, plod along and puff my silly words into the air rather unspectacularly, I am afraid.”
— Tortoise, Godel Escher Bach, Douglas Hofstadter
April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.”
— T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land