Avalanche - Leonard Cohen

"To write is to forget. Literature is the most agreeable way of ignoring life. Music soothes, the visual arts exhilarates, the performing arts (such as acting and dance) entertain. Literature, however, retreats from life by turning in into slumber. The other arts make no such retreat— some because they use visible and hence vital formulas, others because they live from human life itself.
This isn’t the case with literature. Literature stimulates life. A novel is a story of what never was, a play is a novel without narration. A poem is the expression of ideas or feelings a language no one uses, because no one talks in verse"

The Book of Disquiet - Fernando Pessoa (via friendly-bibliophilie)

"اللهم إليك أشكو ضعف قوتي ، وقلة حيلتي ، وهواني على الناس ، يا أرحم الراحمين ، أنت رب المستضعفين ، وأنت ربي ، إلى من تكلني ؟ إلى بعيد يتجهمني ؟ أم إلى عدو ملكته أمري ؟ إن لم يكن بك علي غضب فلا أبالي ، ولكن عافيتك هي أوسع لي ، أعوذ بنور وجهك الذي أشرقت له الظلمات وصلح عليه أمر الدنيا والآخرة من أن تنزل بي غضبك ، أو يحل علي سخطك ، لك العتبى حتى ترضى ، ولا حول ولا قوة إلا بك"

— من دعاء الرسول صلى الله عليه و سلم بعد عودته من رحلة الطائف

"The main condition for the achievement of love is the overcoming of one’s narcissism. The narcissistic orientation is one in which one experiences as real only that which exists within oneself, while the phenomena in the outside world have no reality in themselves, but are experienced only from the viewpoint of their being useful or dangerous to one. The opposite pole to narcissism is objectivity; it is the faculty to see other people and things as they are, objectively, and to be able to separate this objective picture from a picture which is formed by one’s desires and fears."

— From The Art of Loving - Erich Fromm (via friendly-bibliophilie)



Chopin Songs,op.posth.74 no.13 - I Want What I Have Not (Elzbieta Szmytka)

Lyrics In English:

My heart is heavy, my eyes full of sorrow,

Darkness creeps over me.

I can no longer sing of tomorrow,

For I am dumb with grief and weeping.

All that I long for is faded and gone.

I wander here in anguish, lonely and sad.

The sun has gone from my heaven.

And I must languish here in this loveless place. 

Oh, could I love again I’d sing with gladness.

Here, far from home, I long to dream.

I want what I have not - to love;

And there is no one to love, nor to sing to.

Sometimes I look to heaven, imploring,

And the howling storm hears my grief.

The rain is cold, and its roar is loud.

“Sing,” cries my heart, “for we shall soon be leaving.

Thanks to yahia-muhammad


Pablo de Sarasate plays his Zigeunerweisen (Gypsy Airs)