A poet is an unhappy being whose heart it torn by secret sufferings, but whose lips are so strangely formed that when the sighs and the cries escape them, they sound like beautiful music… and then people crowd about the poet and say to him: “Sing for us soon again;” that is as much as…
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Soren Kierkegaard
Kierkegaard: I can abstract from everything but not from myself
1836 I have just returned from a party of which I was the life and soul; wit poured from my lips, everyone laughed and admired me–but I went away–and the dash should be as long as the earth’s orbit————————–and wanted to shoot myself. Damn and hell, I can abstract from everything but not from myself,…