Ttzikun

“The bird fights its way out of the egg. The egg is the world. Who would be born must first destroy a world. The bird flies to God. That God's name is Abraxas.”
― Hermann Hesse, Demian: Die Geschichte von Emil Sinclairs Jugend

“Nothing, nothing mattered, and I knew why. So did he. Throughout the whole absurd life I'd lived, a dark wind had been rising toward me from somewhere deep in my future, across years that were still to come, and as it passed, this wind leveled whatever was offered to me at the time, in years no more real than the ones I was living. What did other people's deaths or a mother's love matter to me; what did his God or the lives people choose or the fate they think they elect matter to me when we're all elected by the same fate, me and billions of privileged people like him who also called themselves my brothers? Couldn't he see, couldn't he see that? Everybody was privileged. There were only privileged people. The others would all be condemned one day. And he would be condemned, too.”
― Albert Camus, The Stranger

“Myślisz o Celtach Slowianach Awarach zasiedleniach językach izoglosach etymologiach indoeuropejskich ugrofińskich substratach nie dlatego, że zaraziła cię tym twoja matka, myślisz, ponieważ łudzisz się, że dostrzeżesz w tym jakiś sens i porządek, bo jesteś głupi i nie wiesz, że dostrzec go nie mógłbyś, nawet gdyby ten porządek tam był, ale go tam nie ma i nie dostrzeżesz go tym bardziej, chociażbyś oczy nad tymi książkami wypatrzył, mój miły, nic nie zobaczysz.
Ale pożądasz tego porządku, mój miły, jak niczego innego; bo gdyby był, to byłby również sens i twoje istnienie mogłoby mieć ten sens, mimo pęknięcia i pustki, którą niesiesz w sobie.”
― Szczepan Twardoch, Morfina

“I have no right to call myself one who knows. I was one who seeks, and I still am, but I no longer seek in the stars or in books; I'm beginning to hear the teachings of my blood pulsing within me. My story isn't pleasant, it's not sweet and harmonious like the invented stories; it tastes of folly and bewilderment, of madness and dream, like the life of all people who no longer want to lie to themselves.”
― Hermann Hesse, Demian: Die Geschichte von Emil Sinclairs Jugend