Book: The ides of March

A man may save the state from death to rule the world and to acquire immortal fame of his wisdom, but in the eyes of his wife, he remains a brainless idiot.

Poetry gives life a beautiful appearance, which it has not, it is the most seductive lies and the treacherous Advisor.

Truly our mind is market square, where a slave stands side by side with sage, or neglected garden, where a rose grow weeds. Banal thought at any moment by the Association to invoke the idea of the sublime, and that in turn can prove very ordinary everyday detail or it is immediately cut short.

No, life is not terrible and not great. Human life is not evaluated and makes no sense.

The first and last teacher of life is life itself, and I must give myself to this life fearlessly and unreservedly.

A politician is a person who pretends to also craves fame like everyone else, but to successfully pretend he can, only if the soul is free from this thirst.

Faith in the signs robs people of spiritual energy. It instills in our Romans, from street - sweepers to the consuls - a vague sense of confidence where confidence should not be, and at the same time, obsessive fear, which does not give rise to actions and awakens ingenuity, and paralyzes the will.

I have inherited this burden of superstition and prejudice. I rule the countless number of people, but I must admit that I have ruled the birds and the thunder.

I'm not capable of living compassion when meeting with someone of countless people, with their ruined life. And even less try to justify, when you see how easy they find excuses for yourself when you see how high they are exalted in their own opinion, forgiven, and justified themselves, and vehemently accuse the mysterious fate that allegedly dispossessed them and whose the innocent victim they claim to represent.

Life has no other meaning besides what we give her. It does not support a man and not degrade it. We can't avoid no mental anguish, no joy, but by themselves these States won't tell us anything; our hell and our Paradise are waiting for us to put our own meaning.

... without poetry man goes to war, the girl married, his wife will become a mother, people will bury their dead and die on their own; however, intoxicated with poetry, they rush to their work with unrealistic expectations.

You swore that you loved me and laughingly warned that you will not love me forever.
I didn't hear you. You were speaking a strange language. I will never, ever be able to imagine love which foresees its demise. Love itself is eternity. Love in every moment at all times. This is the only glimpse of eternity we are permitted to see.

There's only one way to establish something: to commit a risky act in accord with their beliefs.

Every wife wants her cave was bigger and better than the rival.