Lovro

“A drunkard never walks where he can fly.

Only the sober believe that the inebriate stagger to and fro. In reality they float on invisible wings and arrive everywhere much earlier than expected.”
― Dezső Kosztolányi, Skylark

“hvar/glagoli

muškarac ulazi u vinograd, sjeda i
plače na rubu otoka, gdje Bog
više ne čeka zvijezde da bi se
objavio moru, žena ustaje i
skače u more, Jedan i Drugi
šute

ja sada znam da se nije moglo
dogoditi ništa: skok je skok,
more samo more, jedna zvijezda
samo Bog, koji uopće i ne želi
da ga se, sada, bilo što o tome
pita”
― Miroslav Mićanović, More i prašina

“There are two kinds of pity. One, the weak and sentimental kind, which is really no more than the heart's impatience to be rid as quickly as possible of the painful emotion aroused by the sight of another's unhappiness, that pity which is not compassion, but only an instinctive desire to fortify one's own soul agains the sufferings of another; and the other, the only one at counts, the unsentimental but creative kind, which knows what it is about and is determined to hold out, in patience and forbearance, to the very limit of its strength and even beyond.”
― Stefan Zweig, Beware of Pity

“I dreamed I saw my maternal grandmother sitting by the bank of a swimming pool, that was also a river. In real life, she had been a victim of Alzheimer’s disease, and had regressed, before her death, to a semi-conscious state. In the dream, as well, she had lost her capacity for self-control. Her genital region was exposed, dimly; it had the appearance of a thick mat of hair. She was stroking herself, absent-mindedly. She walked over to me, with a handful of pubic hair, compacted into something resembling a large artist’s paint-brush. She pushed this at my face. I raised my arm, several times, to deflect her hand; finally, unwilling to hurt her, or interfere with her any farther, I let her have her way. She stroked my face with the brush, gently, and said, like a child, “isn’t it soft?” I looked at her ruined face and said, “yes, Grandma, it’s soft.”
― Jordan B. Peterson, Maps of Meaning: The Architecture of Belief