Madam, Life’s a piece in bloom death goes dogging everywhere: She’s the tenant of the room he’s the ruffian on the stair.
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- It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll; I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.
- In the fell clutch of circumstance, I have not winced nor cried aloud: Under the bludgeoning of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed.
- I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul.
- Life is a series of diminishments. Each cessation of an activity either from choice or some other variety of infirmity is a death, a putting to final rest. Each loss, of friend or precious enemy, can be equated with the closing off of a room containing blocks of nerves and soon after the closing off the nerves atrophy and that part of oneself, in essence, drops away. The self is lightened, is held on earth by a gram less of mass and will.
- We are but tenants and shortly the great landlord will give us notice that our lease has expired.
- Since the death instinct exists in the heart of everything that lives, since we suffer from trying to repress it, since everything that lives longs for rest, let us unfasten the ties that bind us to life, let us cultivate our death wish, let us develop it, water it like a plant, let it grow unhindered. Suffering and fear are born from the repression of the death wish.