When love beckons to you follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions
May wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams
As the north wind lays waste the garden.
For even as love crowns you
so shall he crucify you.
Even as he is for your growth
So is he for your pruning.



The Prophet by Gibran Khalil Gibran

Plašim se jedino besmrtnosti duše. Znam da moram umreti, ali bih voleo da umrem potpuno.
Horhe Luis Borhes, argentinski pisac

"Budala sa srcem a bez pameti je isto tako nesretna budala kao i budala sa pamecu a bez srca."


"Ljubiti znaci ljubiti UPRKOS a ne zbog necega."

Ljubav je moćna i snažna da je ne može pobediti ništa do bekstvo.
Migel de Servantes, španski pisac

Pearl Bailey:

What the world really needs is more love and less paperwork.

Da bi spoznao pravu radost, moraš imati nekoga s kim ćeš je podeliti.

Mark Tven, američki književnik

Work is love made visible. And if you cannot work with love but only with distaste, it is better that you should leave your work and sit at the gate of the temple and take alms of those who work with joy.

Kahlil Gibran

Radio i televizija su škola nepažnje: ljudi gledaju a ne vide, slušaju a ne čuju.

Rober Breson, francuski reditelj

   Because of you, in gardens of blossoming flowers I ache from the
perfumes of spring.
   I have forgotten your face, I no longer remember your hands;
how did your lips feel on mine?
   Because of you, I love the white statues drowsing in the parks,
the white statues that have neither voice nor sight.
   I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice; I have forgotten
your eyes.
   Like a flower to its perfume, I am bound to my vague memory of
you. I live with pain that is like a wound; if you touch me, you will
do me irreparable harm.
   Your caresses enfold me, like climbing vines on melancholy walls.
   I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every
window.
   Because of you, the heady perfumes of summer pain me; because
of you, I again seek out the signs that precipitate desires: shooting
stars, falling objects.
 
Pablo Neruda