Luca

“In this world, who can do a thing, will not; And who would do it, cannot, I perceive: Yet the will’s somewhat — somewhat, too, the power — And thus we half-men struggle. At the end, God, I conclude, compensates, punishes.”
― Robert Browning, Andrea del Sarto

“The Night-Song, the immortal plaint of one who, thanks to his superabundance of light and power, thanks to the sun within him, is condemned never to love. It is night: now do all gushing springs raise their voices. And my soul too is a gushing spring. It is night: now only do all lovers burst into song. And my soul too is the song of a lover. Something unquenched and unquenchable is within me, that would raise its voice. A craving for love is within me, which itself speaketh the language of love. Light am I: would that I were night! But this is my loneliness, that I am begirt with light. Alas, why am I not dark and like unto the night! How joyfully would I then suck at the breasts of light! And even you would I bless, ye twinkling starlets and glow-worms on high! and be blessed in the gifts of your light. But in mine own light do I live, ever back into myself do I drink the flames I send forth. I know not the happiness of the hand stretched forth to grasp; and oft have I dreamt that stealing must be more blessed than taking. Wretched am I that my hand may never rest from giving: an envious fate is mine that I see expectant eyes and nights made bright with longing. Oh, the wretchedness of all them that give! Oh, the clouds that cover the face of my sun! That craving for desire! that burning hunger at the end of the feast! They take what I give them; but do I touch their soul? A gulf is there 'twixt giving and taking; and the smallest gulf is the last to be bridged. An appetite is born from out my beauty: would that I might do harm to them that I fill with light; would that I might rob them of the gifts I have given:—thus do I thirst for wickedness. To withdraw my hand when their hand is ready stretched forth like the waterfall that wavers, wavers even in its fall:—thus do I thirst for wickedness. For such vengeance doth my fulness yearn: to such tricks doth my loneliness give birth. My joy in giving died with the deed. By its very fulness did my virtue grow weary of itself. He who giveth risketh to lose his shame; he that is ever distributing groweth callous in hand and heart therefrom. Mine eyes no longer melt into tears at the sight of the suppliant's shame; my hand hath become too hard to feel the quivering of laden hands. Whither have ye fled, the tears of mine eyes and the bloom of my heart? Oh, the solitude of all givers! Oh, the silence of all beacons! Many are the suns that circle in barren space; to all that is dark do they speak with their light—to me alone are they silent. Alas, this is the hatred of light for that which shineth: pitiless it runneth its course. Unfair in its inmost heart to that which shineth; cold toward suns,—thus doth every sun go its way. Like a tempest do the Suns fly over their course: for such is their way. Their own unswerving will do they follow: that is their coldness. Alas, it is ye alone, ye creatures of gloom, ye spirits of the night, that take your warmth from that which shineth. Ye alone suck your milk and comfort from the udders of light. Alas, about me there is ice, my hand burneth itself against ice! Alas, within me is a thirst that thirsteth for your thirst! It is night: woe is me, that I must needs be light! And thirst after darkness! And loneliness! It is night: now doth my longing burst forth like a spring,—for speech do I long. It is night: now do all gushing springs raise their voices. And my soul too is a gushing spring. It is night: now only do all lovers burst into song. And my soul too is the song of a lover.”
― Friedrich Nietzsche, Ecce Homo/The Antichrist

“– And Zarathustra ran and ran and found no one else and was alone and found himself again and again and enjoyed and relished his solitude and thought of good things– for hours on end. But around the hour of midday, when the sun stood directly over Zarathustra’s head, he was passing an old crooked and gnarled tree that had been embraced by the rich love of a grape-vine and was thus hidden from itself: and from this vine an abundance of yellow grapes hung down toward the wanderer. He then felt a desire to slake a slight thirst and to pluck for himself a grape; but even as he was reaching out his arm to do this, he felt a greater desire for something else: namely, to lie down beside the tree, around the hour of perfect midday, and to sleep.
This Zarathustra did; and no sooner was he lying on the ground, in the stillness and secrecy of the colourful grasses, than he forgot his slight thirst and fell asleep. For, as Zarathustra’s saying goes: One thing is more necessary than another.* Only his eyes remained open: for they were not tired of seeing and admiring the“This Zarathustra did; and no sooner was he lying on the ground, in the stillness and secrecy of the colourful grasses, than he forgot his slight thirst and fell asleep. For, as Zarathustra’s saying goes: One thing is more necessary than another.* Only his eyes remained open: for they were not tired of seeing and admiring the tree and the love of the vine. But in falling asleep Zarathustra spoke thus to his heart: ‘Still! Still! Did the world not just become perfect?* But what is happening to me?”
― Fredrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra

“So, the only use of God is to confirm innocence, and to my mind religion is more a great laundering operation, which is what it was, briefly, for barely three years, and at the time it wasn’t called religion. Since then, there’s been no soap left, our noses are dirty and we’ve been blowing them for one another.”
― albert camus