“So therefore I dedicate myself to myself, to my art, my sleep, my dreams, my labors, my suffrances, my loneliness, my unique madness, my endless absorption and hunger - because I cannot dedicate myself to any fellow being.” —Jack Kerouac
“Conscience is the voice of the soul, the passions are the voice of the body. Is it so astonishing that the two voices often contradict one another? And then to which one should we listen? Too often reason deceives us; we have only too good a basis for challenging her; but conscience never deceives us; she is the true guide of man. She is to the soul what instinct is to the body.” —John Rousseau
- As he fell asleep he had still been thinking of the subject that now always occupied his mind- about life and death, and chiefly about death. He felt himself nearer to it.
- “Love? What is love?” he thought.
- “Love hinders death. Love is life. All, everything that I understand, I understand only because I love. Everything is, everything exists, only because I love. Everything is united by it alone. Love is God, and to die means that I, a particle of love, shall return to the general and eternal source.” These thoughts seemed to him comforting. But they were only thoughts. Something was lacking in them, they were not clear, they were too one-sidedly personal and brain-spun. And there was the former agitation and obscurity. He fell asleep.