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Quote by Mikhail Naimy

Work

The Book of Mirdad: The strange story of a monastery which was once called The Ark

This book delves into the mysterious and otherworldly occurrences surrounding a monastery that was once referred to as The Ark, offering a blend of spiritual intrigue and historical narrative. more

Author

Mikhail Naimy
Mikhail Naimy

Mikhail Naimy, born on October 17, 1889, and died on February 28, 1988, was a prominent Russian and Ukrainian author, poet, and translator of the 20th century. Known for his unique literary style and significant influence on Russian literature, his works are celebrated for their profound emotion and distinctive style. more

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“When I look at our whole Earth, the galaxy and even the universe, full of beautiful constellations and Earth-like planets, I can't stop questioning why do people think they are so important to the point of using others, feeling jealousy and hatred towards those who expose them to something they can't confront, such as their weaknesses, imperfections, failures, fears and attachments. But whichever path I choose, the answer always comes as one: Everyone's reality matches them, and they will never recover from whatever occurs to them for as long as they call home to this Mental Institution called Earth, for as long as they call normal to what is abnormal, and for as long as they are satisfied with themselves. Earth can show mercy but never regret or remorse, for whenever death approaches with its message, the message always says the same, independently of who reads it: start again.”

“To reconcile ourselves with one another, we must release our judgments and make peace with the fact that we are one. This country was founded on the ideal that we are all created equal. If we truly believe in the equality of all humankind, how can we put down and belittle one another? How can we disrespect and prejudge one another? How can we come to the point where we malign and hate one another?”

“He’d never experienced hate before. It was like an ulcer growing on a tumor, festering and stinking. Late at night or between dreams and sleep, he’d get into it, bathing in the venom, wallowing in thoughts of revenge. In a way, the hate felt good. You were righteous, godlike, the dispenser of justice. Hate dispelled your fears and forged every disappointment, setback, loss, humiliation, and failure that ever happened to you into one massive steel sledgehammer of rage, poised to obliterate, and for one brief, purifying moment, give you relief.”