Author of quotes: Jack London. Page 1

Let me face the truth. Tell me what the face of the truth is.

He loved this life, this harsh polar winter, wild silence, boundless snowy plains, onto which the icy mountain masses, still unnamed, not yet mapped, rose.

He did not find a new paradise, and the old one was irretrievably lost.

Life was painful for him, like a bright light for a person with sore eyes. Life sparkled before him and shimmered with all the colors of the rainbow, and he was in pain. It hurts unbearably.

All of you are! he exclaimed Poluchenie-polypetala. - Sentimentalnaya about your immortal souls and afraid to die.

- It's not fair! "Ah!" cried Ruth. - I knew that you will bring the conversation to a joke.
- But you must admit that the joke is witty!

The mind must not intervene in love Affairs.

You wanted to create beauty, and he knew nothing about the nature of beauty. You wanted to write about life, and he had no idea about its nature. You wanted to write about the world, and the world was a Chinese puzzle to you; and whatever you wrote, you would once again acknowledged his ignorance.

Now the universe appeared before him as a whole, and he wandered its byways, blind alleys and the maze is not like a lost traveler through the mysterious thicket pirouetting for an unknown purpose, but as a seasoned traveler, the watcher, trying not to miss anything and everything is bringing on a map. And the more he learned, the more fascinated the world and their own lives in this world.

Watching flying birds, he often reflected on the mechanism of their flight; but he never generalized this phenomenon and thought about the mechanism of flight in General and the development process that led to the emergence of the living flying creatures. He did not even suspect the existence of such a process. The birds could "become," did not come into his head. They "were" - that's all, it really happened. And as was the case with the birds, it was with everything else.

Everything is connected in the world, from the most distant star in the vast sky and down to the smallest grains of sand beneath a human foot.

Life is not mercy on the elderly.

Because Youth is always young. Only the older generation.

Life is a strange thing. A lot I thought for a long time thinking about it, but every day she seems all the more incomprehensible. Why we have such passion for life? Because life is a game, from which man never emerges victorious. To live means to work hard and suffer, yet not to sneak up on us old age, and then we lower hands on the cold ashes of the fires cooled. In agony a child is born, in the throes of old man last sigh, and all our days are full of sorrow and worries. And yet the person goes into the open arms of death reluctantly, stumbling, falling, looking back, fighting to the last. But death is good. Only life is suffering. But we love life and hate death. This is very strange!