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I come closer to my desk as to a bulwark against life.
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To travel? In order to travel it's enough to be. ... Why travel? In Madrid, in Berlin, in Persia, in China, at the Poles both, where would I be but in myself, and in the sort and kind of my sensations?Life is what we make of it. Travels are travellers. What we see is not what we see but what we are.
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It's been a long time since I've been me.
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Attention to detail and a perfectionist instinct, far from stimulating action, are character qualities that lead to renunciation. Better to dream than to be.
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Whether or not they exist, we're slaves to the gods.
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I never go to where's a risk. I'm frightened of dangers down to boredom.
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Who am I to myself? Just a feeling of mine.
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Enthusiasm is rude.
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There is no safe standard to tell man from animals.
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Our problem isn't that we're individualists. It's that our individualism is static rather than dynamic. We value what we think rather than what we do. We forget that we haven't done, or been, what we thought; that the first function of life is action, just as the first property of things is motion.
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In any spirit that isn't deformed there is the belief in God. In any spirit that is not deformed there isn't the belief in a particular God.
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To write is to forget. Literature is the pleasantest way of ignoring life.
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We’ve been devastated by the severest and deadliest drought in history – that of our profound awareness of the futility of all effort and the vanity of all plans.
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The idea of any social obligation ... just the idea of it embarasses my thoughts for a day, and sometimes it's since the day before that I worry, and don't sleep well, and the real affair, when it happens, is absolutely insignificant and justifies nothing; and the case repeats itself and I never learn to learn.
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I say it because I don't believe.
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My homeland is the portuguese language.
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Who doesn't feel commands. He who only thinks what is required in order to win, wins.
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God gave the sea the danger and the abyss, but it was in it that He mirrored the sky.
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Art lies because it's social.
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What is art but the denial of life?
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Smell is a strange sight. It evokes sentimental landscapes through a sudden sketching of the subconscious.
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O meu passado é tudo quanto não consegui ser.
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The house clock, place certain there at the bottom of things, strikes the half hour dry and null. All is so much, all is so deep, all is so dark and cold!
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A morte é a curva da estrada,Morrer é só não ser visto.Se escuto, eu te oiço a passadaExistir como eu existo.A terra é feita de céu.A mentira não tem ninho.Nunca ninguém se perdeu.Tudo é verdade e caminho.