欧宝娱乐

“For, indeed, this is the great horror, solitude, when the soul can no longer bathe in the ever-changing mind, laugh as its sunlit ripples lap its skin, but, shut up in the castle of a few thoughts, paces its narrow prison, wearing down the stone of time, feeding on its own excrement. There is no star in the blackness of that night, no foam upon the stagnant and putrid sea. Even the glittering health that the desert brings to the body, is like a spear in the soul's throat. The passionate ache to act, to think: this eats into the soul like a cancer. It is the scorpion striking itself in its agony, save that no poison can add to the tortue of the circling fire; no superflux of anguish relieve it by annihilation. But against these paroxisms is an eightfold sedative. The ravings of madness are lost in soundless space; the struggles of the drowning man are not heeded by the sea.”
― Aleister Crowley, The Soul of the Desert

“I would rather have this life of combat than the moral calm and mournful stupor of these last years. God give me struggle, enemies, howling crowds, all the combot of which I am capable.”
― Romain Rolland, Correspondence, Diary Entries and Reflections, 1915-40

“In almost all other professions a man must be able to observe carefully and report accurately what he has seen. Those qualifications are unnecessary for journalists, however, since their job is to write sensational stories that sell newspapers.”
― Robert Anton Wilson, Masks of the Illuminati

“This is the supreme anguish of the soul; it realizes itself as itself, as thing separate from that which is not itself, from God. In this spasm there are two ways: if fear and pride are left in the soul, it shuts itself up, like a warlock in a tower, gnashing its teeth with agony. "I am I," it cried, "I will not lose myself," and in that state damned, it is slowly torn by the claws of circumstance disintegrated bitterly, for all its struggles, throughout ages and ages, its rags to be cast piecemeal upon the dungheap without the city. But the soul that has understood the blessedness of that resignation which grasps the universe and devours it, which is without hope or fear, without faith or doubt, without hate or love, dissolves itself ineffable into the abounding bliss of God. It cries with Shelley, as the "chains of lead about its flight of fire" drop molten from its limbs: "I pant, I sink, I tremble, I expire," and in that last outbreaking is made one with the primal and final breath, the Holy Spirit of God.
Such must be the climax of any retirement to the Desert on the part of any aspirant of the Mysteries who has the spark of that fire in him.”
― Aleister Crowley, The Soul of the Desert

“The women cannot go out except to go to church or to the bullfight, and even that is unusual. I consider it a very ugly custom, and if I couldn't go out as I wished, I would leave this country [Spain], if only because of that one custom of the inhabitants.”
― Ana茂s Nin, The Early Diary of Anais Nin, Vol. 1

“Bombs and bullets don't discriminate.”
― Sophie Masson, 1914

“It must here be explained that my innate diffidence forbade me to aspire to the Grade of Magus in any full sense. Such beings appear only in every two thousand years or so.”
― Aleister Crowley, The Vision and the Voice: With Commentary and Other Papers

“Die Menschen konnten sich im Sommer 1914 wirklich kein Bild machen von dem, was kommen wird? Sie h盲tten es wenigstens versuchen k枚nnen.”
― Tillmann Bendikowski, Sommer 1914: Zwischen Begeisterung und Angst - wie Deutsche den Kriegsbeginn erlebten

“The nationalities question fit ill with Marxism. It was perhaps even more puzzling than the peasant problem. One could at least delude oneself into believing that the peasant problem was soluble in Marxian terms by extrapolating from economic data, constructing Procrustean sociologies, and predicting the inevitable splitting of the peasants along class lines. But how did one fit nationality into the Marxist scheme? Of course, according to Marxian theory national boundaries created superficial divisions compared to economic forces and the relations of production, but nationalist passion seemed to inflame people and mobilize them even more than their class interests. World War I would show how ready people were to make sacrifices for the sake of the national or imperial dignity or, in the case of the Slavs of the Russian Empire, for related ethnic groups and coreligionists. Even the discredited Romanov dynasty would be able to rally its people around the war effort鈥攁t least at the outset. This was a complication鈥攊ndeed, as history has showed, a fatal one鈥攆or a Marxian socialist with a genuinely internationalist orientation.”
― Philip Pomper, Lenin, Trotsky, and Stalin: The Intelligentsia and Power

“The Press in 1914 had no Cinema, no Radio, and no Politics: so the painter could really become a 'star'. There was nothing against it. Anybody could become one, who did anything funny. And Vorticism was replete with humour, of course; it was acclaimed the best joke ever. Pictures, I mean oil-paintings, were 'news'. Exhibitions were reviewed in column after column. And no illustrated paper worth its salt but carried a photograph of some picture of mine or of my 'school', as I have said, or one of myself, smiling insinuatingly from its pages.”
― Wyndham Lewis, Blasting and Bombardiering: Autobiography

“1914. A grande ambi莽茫o carnavalesca era usar lan莽a-perfume. Havia tubos para crian莽as, finos como dedos. Bisnagava-se at茅 cachorro!

Na ter莽a-feira gorda, o ch茫o da Avenida tinha um palmo de confetes, os pr茅stitos eram o del铆rio do ouropel 鈥� clarins, marchas triunfais, fogos-de-bengala, caracolantes ginetes abrindo os cortejos 鈥� gato, baeta, carapicu! 鈥� bamboleantes s贸is, planetas, constela莽玫es, Vulcano, J煤piter, Netuno, mitol贸gicos deuses paralisados em gestos de sarrafo e papel茫o, girat贸rias esferas rutilantes que se abriam em gomos para desvendar, por instantes deslumbrados, deidades semi-nuas, atirando beijos, para a multid茫o comprimida, com a ponta dos dedos inating铆veis.

Sa铆mos de tardinha, providos de farnel 鈥� sandu铆ches, past茅is, coxinhas de galinha 鈥� lev谩vamos horas no bonde se arrastando aos arrancos, 铆amos postar-nos numa esquina prop铆cia, sobre caixotes, para esperar o desfile de proverbial atraso.

Mas se a chama foliona se extinguia na cidade, entre missas, sinos e beatas, na manh茫 de quarta-feira, prolongava-se em nossa casa por muitos dias al茅m com restos de serpentinas pendentes dos gradis, saldos de confetes tapizando sala de jantar, trono, capitel, concha ou nen煤far, donde Madalena reclinada, soberana, envolta em rotos fil贸s de antigos cortinados, com as faces tingidas por carmim, os cabelos coroados por um desperd铆cio de fitas, atirava em gestos longos cachoeiras de beijos para uma suposta multitude de s煤ditos e adoradores. E a mim, dormido ou acordado, me perseguia incessante, priap铆stica, a luxuriosa vis茫o daquelas deidades apote贸ticas, flora莽茫o de um horto inacess铆vel, habitantes ol铆mpicas, deusas! deusas! pois como poder entros谩-las na fauna feminil que eu conhecia, mesmo a esterlina mulher de doutor V铆tor, que era estrangeira e fumava?”
― Marques Rebelo, O Trapicheiro