Victor Hugo Quote



Je ne suis rien, je le sais, mais je compose mon rien avec un petit morceau de tout.

And in English (my translation…hope it does the original justice):

I am nothing, I now, but I compose my nothing of small pieces of everything.


Dostoyevsky’s White Nights


Autumn Dreams
@Common Creatives Licence

And so I ask myself: ‘Where are your dreams?’ And I shake my head and mutter: ‘How the years go by!’ And I ask myself again: ‘What have you done with those years? Where have you buried your best moments? Have you really lived? Look,’ I say to myself, ‘how cold it is becoming all over the world!’ And more years will pass and behind them will creep grim isolation. Tottering senility will come hobbling, leaning on a crutch, and behind these will come unrelieved boredom and despair. The world of fancies will fade, dreams will wilt and die and fall like autumn leaves from the trees. . . .

Si TU, ce colectionezi? / What’s YOUR collection made of?

BooksStackToata lumea colectioneaza sau a colectionat vreodata ceva! Reviste, diverse ambalaje – unele pentru concursuri idioate -, ceasuri (in stare de functionare sau nu) ,celulare, tatuaje, piercinguri, medalii, bani – vechi sau noi -, boli, flori, programe, afise, scrisori, amintiri, infractiuni…

[…] Oamenii fac colectii pentru a-si acoperi goliciunea.

§For my English readers

Everyone collects or has collected something! Magazines, different packages – some for stupid contests – clocks (in working condition or not), cellulars, tattoos, piercings, medals, money – old or new – diseases, flowers, programs, posters, letters, memories crimes. ..

[…] People make collections to cover their nakedness.

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Julian Barnes’s The Sense Of An Ending

The Sense Of An Ending @Common Creative Licence

The Sense Of An Ending
@Common Creative Licence

Something to think about and maybe to get us to reconsider our own history:

What has Old Joe Hunt answered when I knowingly claimed that the history was the lies of the victors? ‘As long as you remember that it is also the self-delusions of the defeated.’  Do we remember that enough when it comes to our private lives?

What do you think? Is history made of the lies we tell us (knowingly or not)? Or our self-delusions? Or what is lost never to be remembered?

Dostoyevsky’s White Nights

For you, my dear reader:

May your sky always be clear, may your dear smile always be bright and happy, and may you be for ever blessed for that moment of bliss and happiness which you gave to another lonely and grateful heart. Isn’t such a moment sufficient for the whole of one’s life?