Ryan Hinkle

“Ay, that I had not done a thousand more.
Even now I curse the day—and yet, I think,
Few come within the compass of my curse,—
Wherein I did not some notorious ill,
As kill a man, or else devise his death,
Ravish a maid, or plot the way to do it,
Accuse some innocent and forswear myself,
Set deadly enmity between two friends,
Make poor men's cattle break their necks;
Set fire on barns and hay-stacks in the night,
And bid the owners quench them with their tears.
Oft have I digg'd up dead men from their graves,
And set them upright at their dear friends' doors,
Even when their sorrows almost were forgot;
And on their skins, as on the bark of trees,
Have with my knife carved in Roman letters,
'Let not your sorrow die, though I am dead.'
Tut, I have done a thousand dreadful things
As willingly as one would kill a fly,
And nothing grieves me heartily indeed
But that I cannot do ten thousand more.”
― William Shakespeare, Titus Andronicus

“مجویید در من ز شادی نشانه

من و تا ابد این غم جاودانه

من آن قصه تلخ درد آفرینم

که دیگر نپرسند از من نشانه

نجوید مرا چشم افسانه جویی

نگوید مرا ، قصه گوی زمانه

من آن مرغ غمگین تنها نشینم

که دیگر ندارم هوای ترانه

ربودند جفت مرا از کنارم

شکستند بال مرا ، بی بهانه

▄ ▄ ▄

من آن تک درختم که دژخیم پاییز

چنان کوفته بر تنم تازیانه

که خفته است در من فروغ جوانی

که مرده است در من امید جوانه

نه دست بهاری نوازد تنم را

نه مرغی به شاخم کند ، آشیانه

من آن بی کرانِ کویرم که در من

نیفشاده جز دست اندوه* ، دانه

چه می پرسی از قصّه ی غصّه هایم ؟

که از من تو را خود همین بس فسانه

که من دشت خشکم که در من نشسته است

کران تا کران ، حسرتی بی کرانه”
― حسین منزوی

“Nay, 'twill be this hour ere I have done weeping. All the kind of the Launces have this very fault. I have received my proportion, like the prodigious son, and am going with Sir Proteus to the Imperial's court. I think Crab, my dog, be the sourest-natured dog that lives. My mother weeping, my father wailing, my sister crying, our maid howling, our cat wringing her hands, and all our house in a great perplexity, yet did not this cruel-hearted cur shed one tear. He is a stone, a very pebble stone, and has no more pity in him than a dog. A Jew would have wept to have seen our parting. Why, my grandam, having no eyes, look you, wept herself blind at my parting. Nay, I'll show you the manner of it. This shoe is my father. No, this left shoe is my father. No, no, this left shoe is my mother. Nay, that cannot be so neither. Yes, it is so, it is so -- it hath the worser sole. This shoe with the hole in it is my mother, and this my father. A vengeance on't! There 'tis. Now, sir, this staff is my sister, for, look you, she is as white as a lily and as small as a wand. This hat is Nan, our maid. I am the dog. No, the dog is himself, and I am the dog -- O, the dog is me, and I am myself. Ay, so, so. Now come I to my father: 'Father, your blessing.' Now should not the shoe speak a word for weeping. Now should I kiss my father -- well, he weeps on. Now come I to my mother. O, that she could speak now like a wood woman! Well, I kiss her -- why, there 'tis: here's my mother's breath up and down. Now come I to my sister; mark the moan she makes. Now the dog all this while sheds not a tear nor speaks a word!”
― William Shakespeare, The Two Gentlemen of Verona

“It doesn't seem like you're living a life, it's almost like you're travelling on a train with the destination unknown.

You're sitting on a seat near the window looking outside, imagining how things are there outside, how is it like to live in the houses that you pass by. And when you’re busy noticing the outside, you at times do not pay heed to your surroundings inside the coach.

And thus some passengers who got down at a station midway fail to capture your interest, or maybe it is because of your deviation of interest towards the outside. While at other stops new people get up, and you like their company, you share and you laugh.

But sooner or later they get down.

Because it's your journey, you're the traveler and they just accompany you for some distances.

And then, maybe when you reach your destination there will still be passengers in the train, passengers you've mingled with or passengers you hate, people who were there since the train had started or people who got in just before the last stoppage, and like it or not, they will get off the train with you, at your destination which also proved to be there destination.”
― Sanhita Baruah