Bookish

Caro

22, Ruhrgebiet

Im Augenblick lese ich Die erste Liebe (nach 19 vergeblichen Versuchen) von John Green.

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Julia

20, Baden-Württemberg

Im Augenblick lese ich Dragonfly von Julia Golding.

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Sabi

22, Bayern

Im Augenblick lese ich Traumsplitter von Tanja Heitmann.

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Fyn

22, Köln

Im Augenblick lese ich Invisible von Paul Auster.

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Zitate

Zitate aus The Fountainhead

Ayn Rand

Nothing can be reasonable or beautiful unless it's made by one central idea, and the idea sets every detail.
"I have, let’s say, sixty years to live. Most of that time will be spent working. I’ve chosen the work I want to do. If I find no joy in it, then I’m only condemning myself to sixty years of torture. And I can find the joy only if I do my work in the best way possible to me. But the best is a matter of standards—and I set my own standards. I inherit nothing. I stand at the end of no tradition. I may, perhaps, stand at the beginning of one.”
Heny Cameron made a mistake: he loved his work. That was why he fought. That was why he lost.
Then he turned and took her in his arms and kissed her; her lips met his softly, eagerly; but she was neither frightened nor excited, too happy to accept this in any way save by taking it for granted.
“God, I've missed you!” he said, and knew that he had, every day since he'd seen her last and most of all, perhaps, on the days when he had not thought of her.
“Look here, you're not terribly interested.”
“Oh, but I am! I want to know everything about you.”
“Why don't you ask?”
“You'll tell me what you want to.”
“But, you see, it's not what you do that matters really. It's only you.”
“You know, you're a fool, Katie. Your technique is something aweful.”
“My what?”
“Your technique. You can't tell a man so shamelessly, like that, that you're practically crazy about him.”
“But I am.”
“But you can't say so. Men won't care for you.”
“But I don't want men to care for me.”
“You want me to, don't you?”
“But you do, don't you?”
“I do,” he said, his arms tightening about her. “Damnably. I'm a bigger fool than you are.”
“It's all right dear. I understand.”
“If you did, you'd call me the names I deserve and make me stop it.”
He held her close, anxiously, afraid that her weightless little body would vanish. He did not know why her presence made him confess things unconfessed in his own mind.
He had a peculiar sense off freedom—her presence always lifted from him a pressure he could not define—he was alone—he was himself.
But the thought of her remained. He watched it with curiosity. It was stange to be conscious of another person's existence, to feel it as a close, urgent necessity; a necessity without qualifications, neither pleasant nor painful, merely final like an ultimatum. It was important to know that she existed in the world;
The thought seemed distant and unimportant. He was astonished only to know that he still thought of her, even now.
“A thing is not high if one can reach it; it is not great if one can reason about it; it is not deep if one can see its bottom”
“I don't know,” he said in cold fury, his lips stiff, “what you're talking about.”
“Don't try to know. It doesn't matter. Let's just stay away from each other. Shall we?”
When he approached, she made no effort to ignore him; she turned to him, she answered; but the monotonous precision of her answers stopped him, made him helpless, made him leave her in a few moments.
Let's drop the quiz technique—and just talk. Since we both understand and there aren't any questions to be asked between us.
Everything bad ccomes from the mind, because the mind asks too many questions. It is blessed to believe, not to understand.
And selfish emotions are not the ones that lead to happiness. Are they?
The trouble with you, my dear, and with most people, is that you don't have sufficient respect for the senseless. The senseless is the major factor in our lives. You have no chance if it is your enemy.
I can accept anything, except what seems to be the easiest for most people: the halfway, the almost, the just-about, the in-between.
“To say 'I love you' one must know first how to say the 'I.'”
“You want a mirror. People want nothing but mirrors around them. To reflect them while they're reflecting too. You know, like the senseless infinity you get from two mirrors facing each other across a narrow passage. [...] Reflections of reflections and echoes of echoes. No beginning and no end. No center and no purpose.”
“I've propably destroyed you. If I could care, I'd say I'm sorry. That was not my purpose.”
“This, now, is real—it's I—it's my own words—I don't want you to suffer—I can't feel anything else—but I feel that much.”
“You know how people long to be eternal. But they die with every day that passes. When you meet them, they're not what you met last. In any given hour, they kill some part of themselves. They change, they deny, they contradict—and they call it growth. At the end there's nothing left, nothing unreversed or unbetrayed; as if there had never been an entity, only a succession of adjectives fading in and out on an unformed mass. How do they expect a permanence which they have never held for a single moment?”
He laughed. She heard, in the sound of it, a surprising touch of consideration for her—the attempt not to laugh; but he couldn't stop it.
“I wish I could tell you that it was a temptation, at least for a moment. But it wasn't.”
“Make that clear.”
“I think you understand.”
“I want to hear you explain it.”
“I always feel as if I were reading to you a carbon copy of myself and you've already seen the original. You seem to hear everything I say a minute in advance. We're unsynchronized.”
“You call that unsynchronized?”
“All right. Too well synchronized.”
“I was thinking of people who say that happiness is impossible on earth. Look how hard they all try to find some joy in life. Look how they struggle for it. Why should any living creature exist in pain? By what conceivable right can anyone demand that a human being exist for anything but his own joy? Every one of them wants it. Every part of him wants it. But they never find it. I wonder why. They whine and say they don’t understand the meaning of life. There’s a particular kind of people I despise. Those who seek some sort of a higher purpose or ‘universal goal,’ who don’t know what to live for, who moan that they must ‘find themselves.’ You hear it all around us. That seems to be the official bromide of our century. Every book you open. Every drooling self-confession. It seems to be the noble thing to confess. I’d think it would be the most shameful one.”
“Is there any essential difference? Everybody's problems are the same, just like everybody's emotions.”
“It was the only thing I every really wanted. And that's the sin that can't be forgiven—that I hadn't done what I wanted. It feels so dirty and pointless and monstrous, as one feels about insanity, because there's no sense to it, no dignity, nothing but pain—and wasted pain... [...]
It's the hardest thing in the world—to do what we want. And it takes the greatest kind of courage. I mean, what we really want.”
Every form of happiness is private. Our greatest moments are personal, self-motivated, not to be touched. The things which are sacred or precious to us are the things we withdraw from promiscuous sharing.
only it did not seem important to tell people anything, ever.
He wanted to put his head down on the desk, lie still and rest, only the form of rest he needed did not exist, greater than sleep, greater than death, the rest of having never lived.