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“I realize that some people will not believe that a child of little more than ten years is capable of having such feelings. My story is not intended for them. I am telling it to those who have a better knowledge of man. The adult who has learned to translate a part of his feelings into thoughts notices the absence of these thoughts in a child, and therefore comes to believe that the child lacks these experiences, too. Yet rarely in my life have I felt and suffered as deeply as at that time.”
― Demian: Die Geschichte von Emil Sinclairs Jugend
― Demian: Die Geschichte von Emil Sinclairs Jugend
“I don't like remembering.
Remembering makes me feel things.
I don't like to feel things.
I'm thinking I could spend the rest of my life becoming an expert at forgetting”
― Last Night I Sang to the Monster
Remembering makes me feel things.
I don't like to feel things.
I'm thinking I could spend the rest of my life becoming an expert at forgetting”
― Last Night I Sang to the Monster
“I lived in pain because I chose to live in pain. Somewhere along the line, I fell in love with the idea of tragedy, the idea that I was destined to live a tragic life. I had this romantic idea about the life of a writer and what he was supposed to suffer. [...:] Somehow I made my own pain a kind of god.”
― Last Night I Sang to the Monster
― Last Night I Sang to the Monster
“For the first time in my life I tasted death, and death tasted bitter, for death is birth, is fear and dread of some terrible renewal.”
― Demian: Die Geschichte von Emil Sinclairs Jugend
― Demian: Die Geschichte von Emil Sinclairs Jugend
“THE HOST is riding from Knocknarea
And over the grave of Clooth-na-bare;
Caolte tossing his burning hair
And Niamh calling Away, come away:
Empty your heart of its mortal dream.
The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,
Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,
Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are a-gleam,
Our arms are waving, our lips are apart;
And if any gaze on our rushing band,
We come between him and the deed of his hand,
We come between him and the hope of his heart.
The host is rushing ’twixt night and day,
And where is there hope or deed as fair?
Caolte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away”
―
And over the grave of Clooth-na-bare;
Caolte tossing his burning hair
And Niamh calling Away, come away:
Empty your heart of its mortal dream.
The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,
Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,
Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are a-gleam,
Our arms are waving, our lips are apart;
And if any gaze on our rushing band,
We come between him and the deed of his hand,
We come between him and the hope of his heart.
The host is rushing ’twixt night and day,
And where is there hope or deed as fair?
Caolte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away”
―
Adonis’s 2025 Year in Books
Take a look at Adonis’s Year in Books, including some fun facts about their reading.
Favorite Genres
Fantasy, Fiction, Historical fiction, History, Horror, Mystery, Non-fiction, Poetry, Romance, Self help, Thriller, and Young-adult
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