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Haruki Murakami
“The strength I'm looking for isn't the type where you win or lose. I'm not after a wall that'll repel power coming from outside. What I want is the kind of strength to be able to absorb that kind of power, to stand up to it. The strength to quietly endure things - unfairness, misfortunes, sadness, mistakes, misunderstandings.”
― Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore

Jane Austen
“Laugh as much as you choose, but you will not laugh me out of my opinion.”
― Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

Jane Austen
“My good opinion once lost is lost forever.”
― Jane Austin, Pride and Prejudice

Fyodor Dostoevsky
“Once he went into the mountains on a clear, sunny day, and wandered about for a long time with a tormenting thought that refused to take shape. Before him was the shining sky, below him the lake, around him the horizon, bright and infinite, as if it went on forever. For a long time he looked and suffered. He remembered now how he had stretched out his arms to that bright, infinite blue and wept. What had tormented him was that he was a total stranger to it all. What was this banquet, what was this great everlasting feast, to which he had long been drawn, always, ever since childhood, and which he could never join? Every morning the same bright sun rises; every morning there is a rainbow over the waterfall; every evening the highest snowcapped mountain, there, far away, at the edge of the sky, burns with a crimson flame; every little fly that buzzes near him in a hot ray of sunlight participates in this whole chorus: knows its place, loves it, and is happy; every little blade of grass grows and is happy! And everything has its path, and everything knows its path, goes with a song and comes back with a song; only he knows nothing, understands nothing, neither people nor sounds, a stranger to everything and a castaway.”
― Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Idiot

Dino Buzzati
“Another ten miles–people will say–over that river and you will be there. Instead it never ends. The days grow shorter, the fellow travelers fewer; at the windows apathetic figures stand and shake their heads.
At last Drogo will be alone and there on the horizon stretches a measureless sea, motionless, leaden. Now he will be tired; nearly all the houses along the way will have their windows shut and the few persons he sees will answer him with a sad gesture. The good things lay further back–far far back and he has passed them by without knowing it. But it is too late to turn back; behind him swells the hum of the multitude urged by the same illusion but still invisible on the white road.
At this moment Drogo is sleeping in the third redoubt. He is smiling in his dreams. For the last time there come to him by night the sweet sights of a completely happy world. It is as well that he cannot see himself as he will one day be–there at the end of the road, standing on the shores of the leaden sea under a grey, monotonous sky. And around him, there is not a house, not one human being, not a tree, not even a blade of grass. And so it has been since time immemorial.”
― Dino Buzzati, The Tartar Steppe

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