You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living. Then you read a book (Lady Chatterley, for instance), or you take a trip, or you talk with Richard, and you discover that you are not living, that you are hibernating. The symptoms of hibernating are easily detectable: first, restlessness. The second symptom (when hibernating becomes dangerous and might degenerate into death): absence of pleasure. That is all. It appears like an innocuous illness. Monotony, boredom, death. Millions live like this (or die like this) without knowing it. They work in offices. They drive a car. They picnic with their families. They raise children. And then some shock treatment takes place, a person, a book, a song, and it awakens them and saves them from death.
— The Diary of AnaÃ¯s Nin , Volume One 1931-1934
by Oriah Mountain Dreamer
It doesnât interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heartâs longing.
It doesnât interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.
It doesnât interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by lifeâs betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain.
I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.
It doesnât interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; if you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see beauty, even when itâs not pretty, every day, and if you can source your own life from its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, âYes!â
It doesnât interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.
It doesnât interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.
I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments. — Oriah Mountain Dreamer
It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.
— Theodore Roosevelt
You have to be always drunk. That’s all there is to itâit’s the only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk.But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk.
And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again, drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is singing, everything that is speaking. . .ask what time it is and wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: “It is time to be drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish.
Charles Baudelaire (Translated from French)
The past is regret, shame and embarrassment sprinkled with memories of moments of joy now fading away. The future is fear…of repeating the past, of failures to come, mixed in with a few longing hopes of what might be. The present is pure joy and laughter and hope and happiness. All that is bad is brought in from the past or the future, all that is good is now.— David Morris
The greatness of a person is determined by the greatness of the questions he asks.— David Morris
Every man dies, not every man really lives.
— William Wallace in Braveheart (movie)
A good traveler has no fixed plans and is not intent on arriving.
— Lao Tzu
Hitch: Life is not the amount of breaths you take, it’s the moments that take your breath away.
— Hitch (movie)
The largest barrier to success is the concept of change.— David Morris