Cesare Pavese
Cesare Pavese (9 September 1908 – 27 August 1950) was an Italian poet, novelist, literary critic and translator. He is widely considered among the major authors of the 20th century in his home country.
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The richness of life lies in memories we have forgotten.
If you wish to travel far and fast, travel light. Take off all your envies, jealousies, unforgiveness, selfishness and fears.
All sins have their origin in a sense of inferiority otherwise called ambition.
He knows not his own strength that hath not met adversity.
The closing years of life are like the end of a masquerade party when the masks are dropped.
Give me the ready hand rather than the ready tongue.
No one ever lacks a good reason for suicide.
No woman marries for money, they are all clever enough before marrying a millionaire to fall in love with him first.
One must look for one thing only to find many.
Artists are the monks of the bourgeois state.
Life is pain and the enjoyment of love is an anesthetic.
Living is like working out a long addition sum and if you make a mistake in the first two totals you will never find the right answer. It means involving oneself in a complicated chain of circumstances.
Will power is only the tensile strength of one's own disposition. One cannot increase it by a single ounce.
A man is never completely alone in this world. At the worst he has the company of a boy a youth and by and by a grown man - the one he used to be.
Hate is always a clash between our spirit and someone else's body.
The art of living is the art of knowing how to believe lies.
Every luxury must be paid for and everything is a luxury starting with being in this world.
The only joy in the world is to begin.
We do not remember days we remember moments.
One stops being a child when one realizes that telling one's trouble does not make it any better.
Lessons are not given they are taken.
Love is the cheapest of religions.
If it were possible to have a life absolutely free from every feeling of sin what a terrifying vacuum it would be.
One does not kill oneself for love of a woman but because love - any love - reveals us in our nakedness our misery our vulnerability our nothingness.
It is not that the child lives in a world of imagination, but that the child within us survives and starts into life only at rare moments of recollection which makes us believe, and it is not true that as children we were imaginative?
