Stairwell to Heaven or The Halloween Office Party


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Past and future, far and near had joined together and fused in the life of my mind
— The Blind Owl, Sadegh Hedayat
Love caught us suddenly, leaped at us like a murderer appearing from out of nowhere in an alley, and struck us both down at once. Like lightning, like a Finnish knife! However, afterward she insisted it was not so, that we had loved each other for a long, long time, without knowing one another, never having met.
— The Master and Margarita, Mikhail Bulgakov
No dramatics, please no dramatics, Azazello responded, grimacing. After all, my position isn’t enviable either. Punching a house manager on the jaw, or kicking out an uncle, or shooting someone, or other trifles of that kind–those are directly in my life. But talking to women in love–thank you kindly!”
— The Master and Margarita, Mikhail Bulgakov
Seen from high above...Rebecca, the tall, black-haired high school students, imagined as a toddler–made me think, as I drifted idly beside a small upside-down omelette pan, of fairy story scenarios featuring shrinking children and gigantic babies ugly toads ‘kissed’ into princes, and paupers crowned as kings, the whole inventory of enchantments and transformations that describe life in the realm of the unconscious.
— The Verificationist, Donal Antrim
It is my hope...say something worthwhile about what I call the verifiability in emotional experience
— The Verificationist, Donald Antrim
And I wonder if that seemingly feeble thing, my voice, does not perhaps embody the substance of thousands of voices, the hunger to speak out of thousands of lives, the patience of millions of souls who, like me, have submitted in their daily lives to vain dreams and evanescent hopes.
— The Book of Disquiet, Fernando Pessoa
Life is nothing but a fiction, a mere story
— The Blind Owl, Sadegh Hedayat
I no longer love her, that’s certain, but maybe I love her. Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer and these the last verses that I write for her.
— Tonight, I Can Write The Saddest Lines, Pablo Neruda