Fred

“You can begin a story in the middle and create confusion by striking out boldly, backward and forward. You can be modern, put aside all mention of time and distance and, when the whole thing is done, proclaim, or let someone else proclaim, that you have finally, at the last moment, solved the space-time problem. Or you can declare at the very start that it is impossible to write a novel nowadays, but then, behind your own back so to speak, give birth to a whopper, a novel to end all novels. I have also been told that it makes a good impression, an impression of modesty so to speak, if you begin by saying that a novel can't have a hero anymore because there are no more individualists, because individuality is a thing of the past, because man- each men and all men together- is alone in his loneliness and no one is entitled to individual loneliness, and all men lumped together make up a "lonely mass" without names and without heroes. (...) I shall begin far away from me, for no one ought to tell the story of his life who hasn't the patience to say a word or two at least half of his grandparents before plunging into his own existence. And so to you personally, dear reader, who are no doubt leading a muddled life outside this institution, to you my friends and weekly visitors, I introduce Oskar's maternal grandmother”
― Gunter Grass

“Wenn oft der Himmel umwölkt und der Horizont kleiner war, fühlte er eine Art von Bangigkeit, daß die ganze Welt wiederum mit ebenso einer Decke umschlossen sei wie die Stube, worin er wohnte, und wenn er dann mit seinen Gedanken über diese gewölbte Decke hinausging, so kam ihm diese Welt an sich viel zu klein vor, und es deuchte ihm, als müsse sie wiederum in einer andern eingeschlossen sein, und das immer so fort.”
― Karl Philipp Moritz, Anton Reiser

“Don't you recognize me?'
'No.'
'Eponine.'
Marius bent hastily forward and saw that it was indeed that unhappy girl, clad in a man's clothes.
'How do you come to be here? What are you doing?'
'I'm dying,' she said.
There are words and happenings which arouse even souls in the depths of despair. Marius cried, as though starting out of sleep:
'You're wounded! I'll carry you into the tavern. They'll dress your wound. Is it very bad? How am I to lift you without hurting you? Help, someone! But what are you doing here?'
He tried to get an arm underneath her to raise her up, and in doing so touched her hand. She uttered a weak cry.
'Did I hurt you?'
'A little.'
'But I only touched your hand.'
She lifted her hand for him to see, and he saw a hole in the centre of the palm.
'What happened?' he asked.
'A bullet went through it.'
'A bullet? But how?'
'Don't you remember a musket being aimed at you?'
'Yes, and a hand was clapped over it.'
'That was mine.'
Marius shuddered.
'What madness! Your poor child! Still, if that's all, it might be worse. I'll get you to a bed and they'll bind you up. One doesn't die of a wounded hand.'
She murmured:
'The ball passed through my hand, but it came out through my back. It's no use trying to move me. I'll tell you how you can treat my wound better than any surgeon. Sit down on that stone, close beside me.'
Marius did so. She rested her head on his knee and said without looking at him:
'Oh, what happiness! What bliss! Now I don't feel any pain.”
― Victor Hugo, Les Misérables

“I love you more than my own skin and even though you don’t love me the same way, you love me anyways, don’t you? And if you don’t, I’ll always have the hope that you do, and i’m satisfied with that. Love me a little. I adore you.”
― Frida Kahlo