seriousness

She couldn't avoid being serious about things she cared for, and happiness made her grave at the thought of all the things which might destroy it.

Those who are weak, never suck the blood of the enemy, as it is to be done with strength.

But a generation that does not aspire to seriousness, to meaning, is unworthy to walk in the shadow of those who have gone before, I mean those who have struggled and surmounted, I mean those who have aspired, I mean Rembrandt, I mean Turner, I mean Michelangelo and Matisse _ I mean obviously Rothko.

Who put the S in comic to make cosmic? / The Self, which is the self of all beings - / choosing to disguise from themselves / that everything is just a game. // With a laugh we could turn / from all the seriousness we learned / and connect with every atom to create / breathtaking beauty with graceful ease.

I__e only been to jail a few times, but in several different countries, at that. No, I've only been to jail a few times. But I still claim the ability to write a "serious" novel.

Seriousness is too boring to the playful human condition. A heart of stone that has a long face can never express love.

When your madness is creative and necessary, people will not notice the fact that you are crazy.

It is the tendency of deep feeling to subdue the manner rather than to render it too energetic.

The men who made the joke saw something deep which they could not express except by something silly and emphatic.

I like to prowl ordinary places.I feel sorry for us all or glad for us allcaught alive togetherand awkward in that way.there's nothing better than the jokeof usthe seriousness of usthe dullness of us

Humanity takes itself too seriously. It is the world's original sin. If the cave-man had known how to laugh, History would have been different.

The first step towards true enlightenment is to lighten up on yourself.

This is an ode to life.The anthem of the world.For as there are billionsof different stars thatmake up the skyso, too, are there billions of different humans thatmake up the Earth.Some shine brighter but all are made ofthe same cosmic dust.O the joy of beingin life with all these people!I speak of differencesbecause they are there.Like the different organsthat make up our bodies.Earth, itself, is one large body.Listen to how it howlswhen one human isin misery.When one kills another, the Earth feels the pang in itschest. When one orgasms, the Earth craves a cigarette.Look carefully,these animals are beauty spots that make the Earth__ face lovelier and more loveable.These oceans are the Earth__ limpid eyes. These trees, its hair.This is an ode to life.The anthem of the world.I will no longer speak of differences, for the similaritiesare larger. Look even closer. There may bedistances between our limbs butthere are no spaces betweenour hearts. We long to be one.We long to be in nature andto run wild with its wildlife.Let us celebrate life and living, for it is sacrilegious to be ungrateful.Let us play and be playful, for it is sacrilegiousto be serious.Let us celebrate imperfectionsand make existenceproud of us, for tomorrow isdeath, and this is an ode to life. The anthem of the world.

What? Why are you making the glee nose? The death of my world is funny? The final vengeance of my people? I will kill you.

The one serious conviction that a man should have is that nothing is to be taken too seriously.

Every novel which is truly written contributes to the total of knowledge which is there at the disposal of the next writer who comes, but the next writer must pay, always, a certain nominal percentage in experience to be able to understand and assimilate what is available as his birthright and what he must, in turn, take his departure from. If a writer of prose knows enough about what he is writing about he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them. The dignity of movement of an ice-berg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water. A writer who omits things because he does not know them only makes hollow places in his writing. A writer who appreciates the seriousness of writing so little that he is anxious to make people see he is formally educated, cultured or well-bred is merely a popinjay. And this too remember; a serious writer is not to be confounded with a solemn writer. A serious writer may be a hawk or a buzzard or even a popinjay, but a solemn writer is always a bloody owl.

If you mean your words, people who lust over your lovely ways won't dare to reject you.

Only an atmosphere of quiet hard work and dull, serious conversation were appropriate to him.