The world is a very strange place, and there are times when the metaphorical or narrative description characteristic of culture and the material representation so integral to science appear to touch, when everything comes together—when life and art reflect each other equally.

How many times can a man turn his head pretending he just doesn't see?

I felt very sorry that I had not met this man.

Far away in the thirties and forties she (the girl you want to be) is waiting her turn. Her body, brain, her soul are in your girlish hands. She cannot help herself. What will you leave for her? … Will you throw away her inheritance?

The Webbs are really gone! When I saw the waggons at the door, and thought of all the trouble they must have in moving, I began to reproach myself for not having liked them better, but since the waggons have disappeared my conscience has been closed again, and I am excessively glad they are gone.

I feel lonely as I gaze at the moon. I feel lonely as I think about myself, and I feel lonely as I ponder upon this wretched life of mine. I want to cry out that I am lonely, but no one asks me how I feel.

Kobayashi Issa

Philosophical pessimism

At the confluence of East and West, Bucharest rose above its communist past into a city whose historical influences are reflected in the contrasting architectural fusion, a traditional-meets-modern outlook, and a stream of social happenings.

Why the hell do you have to be so critical?

People want to see it because although it’s not a pretty scene that the movie is reflecting; it still is the reality that we live in, and it just portrays and exemplifies the life that we live in as it is. Nothing more, nothing less.

Sasa no ha wa
Miyama mo saya ni
Sayagedomo
Ware wa imo omo
Wakare kinureba

I would have loved to have been on the Band Aid record but I only heard about it when I was in Germany. I don’t know if they would have had me on the record anyway, because I’m a bit old.
I’m just an old slag who gets up every morning, scratches his head and wonders what he wants to fuck.

No one realizes how beautiful it is to travel until he comes home and rests his head on his old, familiar pillow.

He walks in the street, a picture of modesty in his felt hat and his gabardine suit, and all the while he's thinking, "I'm immortal." The world is his, time is his, and I'm nothing but an insect.

Time is the only true purgatory.