一楼

Each one of us is alone in the world.
He is shut in a tower of brass, and can communicate with his fellows only by signs,
and the signs have no common value, so that their sense is vague and uncertain.
We seek pitifully to convey to others the treasures of our heart,
but they have not the power to accept them, and so we go lonely,
side by side but not together,
unable to know our fellows and unknown by them.
We are like people living in a country whose language they know so little that,
with all manner of beautiful and profound things to say,
they are condemned to the banalities of the conversation manual.
Their brain is seething with ideas, and they can only tell you that
the umbrella of the gardener's aunt is in the house.”
― W. Somerset Maugham, The Moon And Sixpence

Life was combat, and victory was not to the lazy, the timid
― Russell Baker, In My Day

活着多好呀。我写这些文章的目的也就是使人觉得：活着多好呀。
― 汪曾祺, 《草木春秋》

似乎他们不是生我的气，而是对自己未来的人生方向感到愤怒，因此他们想向全世界复仇。
― 奥尔汗·帕穆克, 《我的名字叫红》

There is prodigious strength in sorrow and despair.
― Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

然而，就算我们早已有了心理准备，当磨难如噩梦般席卷而来时，我们依然会被孤独所吞噬，一种绝望的，挥之不去的孤独。我们幻想着，若能找人分担寂寞，将能使我们快乐起来。
― 奥尔汗·帕穆克, 《黑书》

午后，如果阳光静寂
你是否能听出
往日已归去哪里？
― 史铁生, 《最后的练习》

冬天在等待中过去了。远征归途中，苏丹驻留在了他非常喜爱的埃迪尔奈。没有人来找我们，只有我们俩在一起。上午皇宫没有人聆听我们的故事，晚上也没有官邸的人款待我，因此我们没什么事做。我请一位来自威尼斯的画家为我绘制肖像，并学习乌德琴，以此来消磨时间；霍加则时不时到库勒底比去看看他派了一个看守人守卫的武器。他也不是没有到处为它加上点东西，却又很快厌倦了。我们最后共度的那些个冬夜里，他没再提及这个武器，也没谈论要用它来做的事情。他突然显得缺乏活力，但不是因为失去了热情。
晚上大多数时间我们都在等待，等待着风雪停止，等待着深夜小贩最后的叫卖声经过，等待着炉火减弱再多添柴火，等待着金角湾对岸最后一盏灯熄灭，等待着怎么也不来的困意到来，等待着早上的祝礼词。在这样的冬夜里，我们很少交谈，经常各自沉浸在自己的思绪里。
― 奥尔汗·帕穆克, 《白色城堡》

“I can’t help it. I was born a miscarriage. I had so many insults I died. I was born dead. I can’t
help it. I’m tired. I’m give out trying. You got chances. I had so many insults I was born dead. You
got it easy. I was born dead an’ life was hard. I’m tired. I’m tired out talking and standing up. I been
dead fifty-five years.”
-Ken Kesey, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest

These woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
― Robert Frost, Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening

To acquire the habit of reading is to construct for yourself a refuge from almost all the
miseries of life.
― W. Somerset Maugham, Books and You

The only important thing in a book is the meaning that it has for you.
― W. Somerset Maugham

I have an idea that the only thing which makes it possible to regard this world we live in
without disgust is the beauty which now and then men create out of the chaos. The
pictures they paint, the music they compose, the books they write, and the lives they lead.
Of all these the richest in beauty is the beautiful life. That is the perfect work of art.
― W. Somerset Maugham, The Painted Veil