Book: The moon and sixpence. Page 3

- Are you completely devoid of self-love, is a rare property.
I love her far more than himself. It seems to me, self-love added to love only when you love yourself. Because married men often are addicted to other women; and then it passes, they return to the family, and people think it quite natural. Why should women be any different?
- The reasoning is pretty logical - I laughed, - but most men are arranged differently; they can't forgive and that's it.

A monument to the artist and his creations.

I think that there are people who were born, not where they should have been born. The accident put them in a particular region, but they are haunted by the longing for the unknown country. They are strangers in their native lands, and tree-lined avenues, familiar to them from childhood, as well as crowded streets, where they played remain for them merely a way station on the. Aliens they live among relatives; strangers remain in their native lands. Maybe the distance and pushes them away, in search of something permanent, something that can bind them to yourself. Maybe some deeply hidden atavism drives these eternal Wanderers in the edge left by their ancestors a long time ago, in prehistoric times. It happens that a person suddenly steps into the land to which it is linked by a mysterious bond. Finally, the house he was looking for, it pulls to settle down amidst nature, they previously not seen among people that don't know, with such force, as if it is his homeland. Here and only here that he finds peace...

Beauty, the most precious thing in the world, lies like a stone on the shore, which can raise any passer-by? Beauty is amazing and inaccessible that the artist is in serious travail to create from the chaos of the universe. And when it is created, not given to everyone to know. To comprehend beauty, we must get used to the torment of the artist. The beauty of the melody that he sings to us, and it echoed in our hearts, we need knowledge, sensitivity and imagination...

I don't think about the past, the value has only an eternal today.

Love is a weakness. But I'm a man and happens to want a woman. Having satisfied the passion, I'm already thinking about something else. I can't overcome my desire, but I hate it: it keeps in chains my spirit. I dream of a time when I will not have any desires and I will be able to devote yourself to work. Women do not know how, only love, the love they give God knows what value. They want to convince us that love is important in life. But love is a little. I know lust. It is natural and healthy, and love is a disease. Women exist for my pleasure, but I cannot stand their stupid claims to be assistants, friends, companions.

The man that built the legend, gets a passport to immortality.

People in every little thing depends on the other. Trying to live only for him and for yourself is doomed to failure. Sooner or later the old, tired and ill you'll come crawling back to the fold.

... people talk about the beauty of carefree, they use that word so casually that it loses its power and the subject, which should comprehend it, sharing his name with a thousand vulgar notions, is deprived of his greatness. The word "beautiful" people represent a dress, a dog, a sermon, and he found himself face to face with a beautiful, do not know how to recognize it. They are trying to cover their miserable thoughts, and it dulls their sensitivity. Like the charlatan who misrepresents the uplifting spirit that he once felt, they are abusing their mental powers and lose them.

Love the difference between a man and a woman that loves woman all day long, and man is only fitfully.

If a woman loves you, she will not calm down until you take possession of your soul. It is weak and so passionately yearns for sovereignty. At least she did not agree. As the little minds she has chicken toe, the abstract is incomprehensible to her, and she hates him. She is busy with everyday things, everything is perfect cause her jealousy. The soul of a man is carried away to the higher realms of the universe, and she tries to squeeze it into pridorozhnoy book.

Each of us is alone in this world. Each is enclosed in a copper tower and can communicate with his fellows only through signs. But the signs are not the same for all, but because their meaning is dark and wrong. We desperately want to share with others the treasures of our heart, but they don't know how to take them, so we wander lonely through life, side by side with his companions, but not at the same time with them, not understanding them and not understood them. We are like the people that live in a foreign country, almost without knowing its language; they want to make a lot of wonderful, deep thoughts, but they are doomed to utter only stamped phrases from a phrase book. In their brain wander ideas one more interesting than the other, and tell these people is that: "the Aunt of our gardener had forgotten my umbrella."

To develop character must be at least two times a day to make a heroic effort. That's what I do: get up every morning and every night I go to bed.

At present meant Mrs. Strickland suggested that in her youth she was very pretty, which actually never happened.