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Quotes about Schopenhauer

Henry David Thoreau

Arthur Schopenhauer Only he is successful in his business who makes that pursuit which affords him the highest pleasure sustain him.

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Isnt It A Pity?

Why did I wander
Here and there and yonder
Wasting precious time
For no reason or rhyme
Isnt it a pity
Isnt it a crime
My journeys ended
Everything is splendid
Meeting you today
Has given me a wonderful idea
Here I stay
Its a funny thing
I look at you
I get a thrill
I never knew
Isnt it a pity
We never met before?
Here we are at last
Its like a dream
The two of us

[...] Read more

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To E.

The mountains in fantastic lines
Sweep, blue-white, to the sky, which shines
Blue as blue gems; athwart the pines
The lake gleams blue.

We three were here, three years gone by;
Our Poet, with fine-frenzied eye,
You, stepped in learned lore, and I,
A poet too.

Our Poet brought us books and flowers,
He read us Faust; he talked for hours
Philosophy (sad Schopenhauer's),
Beneath the trees:

And do you mind that sunny day,
When he, as on the sward he lay,
Told of Lassalle who bore away
The false Louise?

[...] Read more

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Edgar Lee Masters

Imanuel Ehrenhardt

I began with Sir William Hamilton's lectures.
Then studied Dugald Stewart;
And then John Locke on the Understanding,
And then Descartes, Fichte and Schelling,
Kant and then Schopenhauer --
Books I borrowed from old Judge Somers.
All read with rapturous industry
Hoping it was reserved to me
To grasp the tail of the ultimate secret,
And drag it out of its hole.
My soul flew up ten thousand miles,
And only the moon looked a little bigger.
Then I fell back, how glad of the earth!
All through the soul of William Jones
Who showed me a letter of John Muir.

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Cápsulas

El pobre Juan de Dios, tras de los éxtasis
del amor de Aniceta, fue infeliz.
Pasó tres meses de amarguras graves,
y, tras lento sufrir,
se curó con copaiba y con las cápsulas
de Sándalo Midy.

Enamorado luego de la histérica Luisa,
rubia sentimental,
se enflaqueció, se fue poniendo tísico
y al año y medio o más
se curó con bromuro y con las cápsulas
de éter de Clertán.

Luego, desencantado de la vida,
filósofo sutil,
a Leopardi leyó, y a Schopenhauer
y en un rato de spleen,
se curó para siempre con las cápsulas
de plomo de un fusil.

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El mal del siglo

Doctor, un desaliento de la vida
que en lo íntimo de mí se arraiga y nace,
el mal del siglo... el mismo mal de Werther,
de Rolla, de Manfredo y de Leopardi.
Un cansancio de todo, un absoluto
desprecio por lo humano... un incesante
renegar de lo vil de la existencia
digno de mi maestro Schopenhauer;
un malestar profundo que se aumenta
con todas las torturas del análisis...

EL MÉDICO:

-Eso es cuestión de régimen: camine
de mañanita; duerma largo; báñese;
beba bien; coma bien; cuídese mucho:
¡Lo que usted tiene es hambre...!

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Searching the truth

Nothingness of negation or
Negation of nothingness....

In self, we are the negation of nothingness,
But we allow the nothingness for self.

We allow the nothingness of consciousness
As a perpetual flight of the being.
We exist in self and we exist for self,

In a cartesian duality,

In a latin con-cretum,

When the certain being surpasses that being toward nothingness.


If Jesus did not exist,
the Christians would not be existent,
But Christians are existent.

[...] Read more

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To Speak of Woe That Is in Marriage

"It is the future generation that presses into being by means of
these exuberant feelings and supersensible soap bubbles of ours."
- Schopenhauer

"The hot night makes us keep our bedroom windows open.
Our magnolia blossoms. Life begins to happen.
My hopped up husband drops his home disputes,
and hits the streets to cruise for prostitutes,
free-lancing out along the razor's edge.
This screwball might kill his wife, then take the pledge.
Oh the monotonous meanness of his lust. . .
It's the injustice . . . he is so unjust--
whiskey-blind, swaggering home at five.
My only thought is how to keep alive.
What makes him tick? Each night now I tie
ten dollars and his car key to my thigh. . . .
Gored by the climacteric of his want,
he stalls above me like an elephant."

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Dubrovnik 1972.

Dubrovnik seemed
a second home,
and you, in a street

cafe, sat drinking coffee,
with that book on
Schopenhauer open

on the table, a cigarette
smoking in an ashtray
unattended, thinking

of the girl in the hotel
restaurant the night
before, the waitress

who smiled at you as
she served and went
by your table, and your

[...] Read more

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What might Have Been.

And you stood there arms folded
In that street in Dubrovnik wearing
That yellow shirt and that moustache
Like some Latin lover with other people
Passing by while you posed for some
Photograph and you thinking of that
Courier dame who came to your room
The day before because your brother
Said you were sick and she sat on your
Bed in her short skirt and said how are
You now? And all you could raise while
Lying there was a small smile and you
Said feeling pretty bad and she touched
Your brow and looking so sad and the
Photo shot done you go back to the table
With the glass of wine and that paperback
Book on Schopenhauer and the hot sticky
Afternoon sun and you wondering if the
Courier dame would have been a good lay
If you’d been feeling better on a different

[...] Read more

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