Book: Black Obelisk. Page 2

I love you, Isabella, - I say. - Love is much stronger than I thought. - My love is like the wind: he came up, and I think that it is just a light breeze, but the heart suddenly bent under him, like a willow in a storm. I love you, heart of my heart, the only island of silence among the General confusion; I love you for what you feel when you flower needs moisture and when the time tired, like Nagashima the day the hound; I love you, and love pouring out of me, just the open gate, where lurked unseen the garden, I still do not quite understand it and marvel at it, and I'm a little ashamed of my solemn words, but they than my will with the thunder pulled out and given a resounding echo; someone tells me someone I don't know, maybe it's a third-rate author of melodrama or my heart, already do not know fear.

...the value of lost will know only when it escapes.

Love is the desire to pass on something that can't hold.

A strange contrast - the gray, almost anonymous mass of victims of the war in silence dragged across the street, and barely crawling behind the car of those who got rich during the war. They grumble, shudder, snort, moving impatiently on the heels of the widows of the slain, which, together with the children complete the March, hungry, emaciated, impoverished, frightened. And cars are a riot of dazzling luxurious summer toilets - linen and silk those who collapsed on the seats, full cheeks, rounded shoulders and face, embarrassed because I had to get into such an unpleasant situation. Pedestrians on the sidewalks easier: they just look away and hurry children, who continually stopped and asked to explain. What is the disabled.

We forget that we live on this planet only a short period of time. And therefore suffer absolutely about the complex world of grief. If we are going to live forever.

Fantasy never cheats.

... it is impossible to merge to unity and have to leave every day and every hour. You know it and you still can't keep love, it spreads out between the fingers, but she is the most precious thing in the world, and yet not hold it. Always one of the two dies before the other. Always one of the two remains.

If you want something to prove, my dear, will always prove. And the reverse too. For any biased point of view, there is always evidence.

Our problem is that there is in us neither really stupid nor true intelligence. And always is the middle, at the half, they sit like monkeys, between the two branches. This tired and sometimes feel sad. People should know where his place is.

The bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ. This miracle is the same as the creation of man arising from mud and dust. According to Rosenfeld, the third miracle is that people do not know how to be with the second, and all ruthlessly exploits and destroys his own kind, and the short period between birth and death is trying to fill with selfishness, although everyone from the beginning is absolutely one thing is clear: he must inevitably die.

Then the excessive misfortune made us human. And now the shameless pursuit of property again turned us into thieves. To disguise this, we again need the varnish of good manners.

Always right the one who lies with a woman in bed.

- Left, but not left.

I told myself that I will, but I suddenly found that time anymore.