#man

Mercy is for the weak… let me show you how much of an Unseelie I still am. ↗

— Julie Kagawa

#paranormal #romance #ya #young-adult #fairies

I find myself fascinated by a man who admits to enjoying fairy tales and uses the word "impinge"- barely misses a beat while indulging in a brief girl-on-girl fantasy. You're a man of layers, Ford." Me and Shrek, we're onions. ↗

— Nora Roberts

#fairies

Idiot. Which road do you take when you're running from something weaker than yourself? Or maybe you're the one looking for an excuse to back out. ↗

— Watsuki Nobuhiro

#excuses #manga #rurouni-kenshin #cowardice

She will not be simple and sweet. She will not be what people tell her she should be. ↗

— E. Lockhart

#sweet

To wish a healthy man to die is the wish from a mind of sickness. To wish an ailing man to die is the wish of the ambitious. ↗

— Roman Payne

#desire #health #ill #illness #sickness

A letter is a soul, so faithful an echo of the speaking voice that to the sensitive it is among the richest treasures of love. ↗

— Honoré de Balzac

#love #romance #writing #faith

I would feel more optimistic about a bright future for man if he spent less time proving that he can outwit Nature and more time tasting her sweetness and respecting her seniority. ↗

— E. B. White

#about #bright #bright future #feel #future

Recall what used to be the theme of poetry in the romantic era. In neat verses the poet lets us share his private, bourgeois emotions: his sufferings great and small, his nostalgias, his religious or political pre-occupations, and, if he were English, his pipe-smoking reveries. On occasions, individual genius allowed a more subtle emanation to envelope the human nucleus of the poem - as we find in Baudelaire for example. But this splendour was a by-product. All the poet wished was to be a human being. When he writes, I believe today's poet simply wishes to be a poet. ↗

— José Ortega y Gasset

#motivation #poetry #romanticism #art

An atheist is a man who believes himself an accident. ↗

— Francis Thompson

#atheist #believes #himself #man #who

Man was born for society. However little He may be attached to the World, He never can wholly forget it, or bear to be wholly forgotten by it. Disgusted at the guilt or absurdity of Mankind, the Misanthrope flies from it: He resolves to become an Hermit, and buries himself in the Cavern of some gloomy Rock. While Hate inflames his bosom, possibly He may feel contented with his situation: But when his passions begin to cool; when Time has mellowed his sorrows, and healed those wounds which He bore with him to his solitude, think you that Content becomes his Companion? Ah! no, Rosario. No longer sustained by the violence of his passions, He feels all the monotony of his way of living, and his heart becomes the prey of Ennui and weariness. He looks round, and finds himself alone in the Universe: The love of society revives in his bosom, and He pants to return to that world which He has abandoned. Nature loses all her charms in his eyes: No one is near him to point out her beauties, or share in his admiration of her excellence and variety. Propped upon the fragment of some Rock, He gazes upon the tumbling waterfall with a vacant eye, He views without emotion the glory of the setting Sun. Slowly He returns to his Cell at Evening, for no one there is anxious for his arrival; He has no comfort in his solitary unsavoury meal: He throws himself upon his couch of Moss despondent and dissatisfied, and wakes only to pass a day as joyless, as monotonous as the former. ↗

— Matthew Gregory Lewis

#contentment #discontentment #hermit #hermits #hopelessness