Ghayth Lattouf

“Everything in my life unravels, thread by thread, yet I smile as if I'm weaving a masterpiece. I wait patiently for the day when all of it—my triumphs, my failures, even my name—dissolves into nothing, as if none of it ever mattered at all.”
― Jonathan Harnisch, Second Alibi: The Banality of Life

“The Iron is always there for you. Your friends may come and go. Someone you thought you knew might turn out to be someone you can no longer stand to be around in the time it takes to blink your eye. Fads come and go, almost everything comes and goes. However, the Iron is the Iron. Two hundred pounds is always two hundred pounds. The Iron is the great reference point, the all-knowing perspective giver, always there like a beacon in pitch black. I have found the Iron to be my greatest friend. It never freaks out on me, never runs, never lies.”
― Henry Rollins, Do I Come Here Often?

“For some days after his return home—in fact, until his friend's arrival, Tom was thoroughly beaten down and wretched, notwithstanding his efforts to look hopefully forward, and keep up his spirits. His usual occupations were utterly distasteful to him; and, instead of occupying himself, he sat brooding over his late misfortune, and hopelessly puzzling his head as to what he could do to set matters right. The conviction in which he always landed was that there was nothing to be done, and that he was a desolate and blighted being, deserted of gods and men.”
― Thomas Hughes, Tom Brown at Oxford

“I lay there turning over the pages of my life, thinking of what I had done and left undone, and of the dreams from which I had awakened. How far off seem the bright visions of early boyhood, and how poor and bare the reality looks. I thought of all my expectations, and the small results of my labors; of my wife, who certainly cannot be called either good-natured or good-looking, of my sons who hardly seem to belong to me, with whom I have nothing in common:—of the faithlessness and folly of those around us, of our poor France torn by civil wars and religious persecutions; of my works of art scattered, life itself a handful of ashes, soon to be blown away by the breath of the Destroyer.—I put my face close up against the oak tree, and lay there weeping quietly all among the big roots which cradled me like a father’s arms; and I felt that he listened.”
― Romain Rolland, Colas Breugnon