Author of quotes: Heinrich Boll. Page 3

My opportunities for promotion up the corporate ladder have not yet been exhausted. I can get a director's position and probably even get it, because everything works out when you don't need it - that's how life plays tricks on us. For some reason, everyone is convinced that I am devoted to the company and will be able to do something for it. But in reality I don't care about her at all, and I don't intend to do anything for her...

This sticker reminds me of a day in my life that I will never forget even though I have tried many times to erase it from my memory. Unfortunately, my memory is too good.

A woman is lying in a chaise longue, a tall woman made of cardboard or wax, I do not know what these showcase dolls are made of. She is wearing sunglasses, and in her hands she is holding a novel called "Rest from your Self."

There is no single god, there is a god of the rich and a god of the poor. One god is hard-hearted and mighty, the other is meek, but exacting... exacting...

God is in sorrow. We must comfort him.

Art, as you know, becomes cheaper when it is sold for a piece of bread.

I must say that the current rising generation is no good, and if there ever was a generation that was good for anything - which I personally doubt very much - it is the generation of our fathers.

Of course, in hindsight it is not difficult to discover the source of fatal events, and, oddly enough, only now, when I look at things soberly, everything that has happened over the past two years with our relatives seems to me like nothing else.

Every evening, when I trudged home gloomily, I was angry that another day of my life had passed, bringing me nothing but fatigue, irritation, and those miserable pennies that are needed to be able to go back to work tomorrow.

It seems to me that this is precisely what distinguishes us, white crows, we do not know how to turn our true calling into gold or, as they say now, practically use it.

I can't forget her; whenever I emerge for a moment from the whirlpool of everyday life, which, with its constant pressure, almost always keeps me in the abyss of human reality, preventing me from floating to the surface, if I slow down this never-ending, exhausting, truly cruel the race they call life and stop somewhere where I can't hear their stupid cries, as soon as I see her face, so close, so clear...

The door opened and I saw a light blond pink woman - I involuntarily thought of those indescribable sources of light that illuminate the dark canvases of Rembrandt from the inside to the last corner. Flaming with golden-red colors, she appeared in front of me, like a ray of light in the midst of gray-black infinity.

I heard cooing female laughter from the rooms, that same mysterious female laughter, from which, depending on the mood, our souls brighten or our chests constrict.

It’s easier to be without luggage when you slowly, unsteadily walk along the very edge again and at some point you will certainly fall into the abyss, where we will all be ...