Jarpson

“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

“Who can escape when in your grip,
When your dark eyes confront one?
I do not wish to flee when you seize me,
I never shall believe that you only destroy.
I know that you must course through everyone's life
and nothing earthbound stays untouched by you,
Though life without you would be beautiful!
And yet, it is worthwhile to experience you.
Indeed, you are not a night's phantom;
You come to remind the spirit of its strength:
It's the battle that has made the greatest persons great
-on rugged roads towards the goal.
For that, and happiness and joy,
give me only one thing;
pain which lends true greatness.
So, come and let us wrestle breast to breast;
do come, even if it means life or death.
Do come and lip into the heart's deepest interior
and rummage through the depths of life.
Take away dream's illusion and joy;
take away things not worth one's unlimited strivings.
You are not mankind's final conqueror.
Although we expose our breast to your blows
and although we collapse in death,
you are the pedestal for our soul's greatness.”
― Lou Andreas-Salomé

“I've come home in love with loneliness”
― L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Avonlea

“By the time we grow up we become masters at dissimulation, at cultivating a self that the world cannot probe. But we pay a price. After years of turning people away, of protecting our inner self, of cultivating it by living in a different world, of furnishing this world with our fantasies and dreams—lo and behold we find that we are hopelessly separated from everyone else. We have become victims of our own art. We touch people on the outsides of their bodies, and they us, but we cannot get at their insides and cannot reveal our insides to them. This is one of the great tragedies of our interiority—it is utterly personal and unrevealable. Often we want to say something unusually intimate to a spouse, a parent, a friend, communicate something of how we are really feeling about a sunset, who we really feel we are—only to fall strangely and miserably flat. Once in a great while we succeed, sometimes more with one person, less or never with others. But the occasional break-through only proves the rule. You reach out with a disclosure, fail, and fall back bitterly into yourself. We emit huge globs of love to our parents and spouses, and the glob slithers away in exchange of words that are somehow beside the point of what we are trying to say. People seem to keep bumping up against each other with their exteriors and falling away from each other. The cartoonist Jules Feiffer is the modern master of this aspect of the human tragedy. Take even the sexual act—the most intimate merger given to organisms. For most people, even for their entire lives, it is simply a joining of exteriors. The insides melt only in the moment of orgasm, but even this is brief, and a melting is not a communication. It is a physical overcoming of separateness, not a symbolic revelation and justification of one’s interior. many people pursue sex precisely because it is a mystique of the overcoming of the separateness of the inner world, and they go from one partner to another because they can never quite achieve “it." So the endless interrogations: “What are you thinking about right now—me? Do you feel what I feel? Do you love me?”
― Becker Ernest