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Quote by Rida Noor

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Rida Noor

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“Που να στραφούμε, Κωσταντή μου. Στον άνθρωπο; Βρώμα και δυσωδία. Στο Θεό; Αφήνει το γερο-Λαδά και ζει και βασιλεύει, και σκοτώνει τη Μαριορή. Στον εαυτό μας; Σκουλήκι που τουρτουρίζει και λιάζεται. Και τη στιγμή που λέει: "Καλά 'μαι, λιάζουμαι...", μια πατούσα περνάει και τον κάνει λιώμα...Καταλαβαίνεις εσύ τίποτα, Κωσταντή μου;”

Human Nature
Author:Καζαντζάκης Νίκος, Kazantzakis Nikos
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“Introverts may have strong social skills and enjoy parties and business meetings, but after a while wish they were home in their pajamas. They prefer to devote their social energies to close friends, colleagues, and family. They listen more than they talk, think before they speak, and often feel as if they express themselves better in writing than in conversation. They tend to dislike conflict. Many have a horror of small talk, but enjoy deep discussions.”

LifeHuman NatureShynessIntrovertsSocial AnxietyParties
Author:Susan Cain
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“It was an old hunter in camp and the hunter shared tobacco with him and told him of the buffalo and the stands he'd made against them, laid up in a sag on some rise with the dead animals scattered over the grounds and the herd beginning to mill and the riflebarrel so hot the wiping patches sizzled in the bore and the animals by the thousands and the tens of thousands and the hides pegged out over actual square miles of ground the teams of skinners spelling one another around the clock and the shooting and shooting weeks and months till the bore shot slick and the stock shot loose at the tang and their shoulders were yellow and blue to the elbow and the tandem wagons groaned away over the prairie twenty and twenty-two ox teams and the flint hides by the hundred ton and the meat rotting on the ground and the air whining with flies and the buzzards and ravens and the night a horror of snarling and feeding with the wolves half-crazed and wallowing in the carrion. I seen Studebaker wagons with six and eight ox teams headed out for the grounds not hauling a thing but lead. Just pure galena. Tons of it. On this ground alone between the Arkansas River and the Concho there were eight million carcasses for that's how many hides reached the railhead. Two years ago we pulled out from Griffin for a last hunt. We ransacked the country. Six weeks. Finally found a herd of eight animals and we killed them and come in. They're gone. Ever one of them that God ever made is gone as if they'd never been at all. The ragged sparks blew down the wind. The prairie about them lay silent. Beyond the fire it was cold and the night was clear and the stars were falling. The old hunter pulled his blanket about him. I wonder if there's other worlds like this, he said. Or if this is the only one.”

DeathHumanityHuman NatureCivilizationHolocaustBuffaloHunt
Book:Blood Meridian, or, the Evening Redness in the West
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“Novelists congratulate themselves on their creation of this kind of “character” or that kind of “character,” and readers pretend to talk knowingly about “character,” but all it amounts to is that the writers are enjoying themselves writing lies and the readers are enjoying themselves reading lies. In fact, there is no such thing as character, something fixed and final. The real thing is something that novelists don’t know how to write about. Or, if they tried, the end result would never be a novel. Real people are strangely difficult to make sense out of. Even a god would have his hands full trying.”

WritingFictionHuman NatureNovelists
Book:The Miner
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