Pity

There are two kinds of pity. One, the weak-minded, sentimental sort, is really just the heart’s impatience to rid itself as quickly as possible of the painful experience of being moved by another person’s suffering. It is not the case of real sympathy, of feeling with the sufferer, but a way of defending yourself against someone else’s pain. The other kind, the only one that counts, is unsentimental but creative. It knows its own mind, and is determined to stand by the sufferer, patiently suffering too, to the last of its strength and even beyond.

Beware of Pity, Stefan Zweig.

Frases de madres anglosajonas.

Someday your face will freeze like that!

What if everyone jumped off a cliff…Would you do it, too?

You’re going to put your eye out with that thing!

Don’t put that in your mouth…you don’t know where it’s been.

Did you flush?

I hope someday you have children just like you.

If I have to get out of this chair!

Don’t eat that, you’ll get worms!

A little soap and water never killed anyone!

You could have been dead in a ditch for all I knew!

Don’t use that tone with me!

You won’t be happy until you break that, will you!

You’d lose your head if it wasn’t attached to your shoulders!

You’d better wipe that smile off your face before I come and do it for you!

What part of the word no don’t you understand?

Why? Because I said so, that’s why?

Now come back downstairs and go back up again without stamping your feet!

I’ve told you a million times, don’t exaggerate!

Go tidy your room-and be ruthless with it!

Your eyes are bigger than your belly!

It’ll end in tears!

Allison Vale and Alison Rattle, Mothers’ Wit.

Felicidad barojiana.

A los pocos días de frecuentar el hospital, Andrés se inclinaba a creer que el pesimismo de Schopenhauer era una verdad casi matemática. El mundo le parecía una mezcla de manicomio y de hospital; ser inteligente constituía una desgracia, y sólo la felicidad podía venir de la inconsciencia de la locura.

Pío Baroja, El árbol de la ciencia.

Muñequitas.

Tamara de Lempicka, «Autorretrato»

NORA. You’ve never really loved me. You just thought it was fun to be in olve with me-that´s all… It’s true Torvald. When I lived at home with papa, he would tell me what he thought about eveything, so I never had any opinions of my own. And if I ever had any ideas of my own I made sure to keep them absolutely secret and hidden, because he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. He used to call me his little doll, and he’d play with me just I played with my own dolls. Then I came to live with you in your house…What I mean is, that I passed directly from papa’s hands into yours. You’ve always arranged things just so, the way you wanted them, and I simply adopted the very same tastes as yours-well, at least I pretended I did-I can’t quite remember- Anyway, I suppose it was a bit of both really-first one-then the other. But now, looking back, it’s as if I were a beggar living here-from hand to mouth. I survived by performing tricks for you, Torvald. But that’s the way you preferred it. You know it’s a terrible wrong that you and papa have done me. It’s your fault that I’ve made nothing of my life… Our home’s been nothing but a play-pen. I’ve been your doll-wife, just as I was papa’s doll-child. And then in their turn the children have been my dolls. I used to think that it was fun when you’d come in and play with me, just as the children think it’s fun when I go in and play with them. But that, Torvald, is all that our marriage amounts to.

Henrik Ibsen, «A doll’s house«

Soltería.

«Lector», Laura Vinader.

En la noche profunda
En la noche fría, absorto en la lectura
de mi libro, olvidé la hora de acostarme.
Los perfumes de mi colcha bordada en oro
se han disipado ya y el fuego se ha apagado.
Mi bella amiga, que hasta entonces a duras penas
había dominado su ira, me arrebata la lámpara
y me pregunta: ¿Sabes qué hora es?

Yan Tsentsai, citado por Kafka en una de sus cartas a Felice Bauer.

¿Qué tipo de lector eres?

Hotel room, Edward Hopper.

The four classes of reader according to Samuel Taylor Coleridge:

Sponges, who absorb all they read and return it nearly the same state, only a little dirtied.

Sand-glasses, who retain nothing and are content to get through a book for the sake of getting through the time.

Strain-bags, who retain merely the dregs of what they read.

Mogul diamonds, equally rare and valuable, who profit by what they read, and enable others to profit by it also.

The literary companion, Emma Jones.

Dormir.

El sueño, de Goya.

HOURS REQUIRED FOR SLEEP.

A traveller five hours doth crave,
To sleep, a student seven will have,
And nine sleeps every idle knave.

or

Nature requires six, custom seven, laziness nine and wickedness eleven.

SIESTAS.

One of the glories is the siesta-a short nap in the middle of the day popular in and around the Mediterranean but cherished equally in countries across the world. The word derives from the Latin sexta hora-literally the sixth hour which, in most temperate countries, is likely to be the hottest. Perhaps because of dismal weather the English have tended to eschew the practice of snoozing during the day, as Nöel Coward observed:

Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun,
The Japanese don’t care to, the Chinese wouldn’t dare to
Hindus and Argentines sleep firmly from twelve to one
But Englishmen detest a siesta.

Ben Schott, Schott’s sporting, gaming and idling miscellany.

¿Por qué (casi?)todos los políticos son personajes necios? ¿Por qué unos más que otros?

«When you have spent half your political life dealing with humdrum issues like the environment…it’s exciting to have a real crisis on your hands».

Margaret Thatcher sobre la Guerra de las Malvinas.

«History will be kind to me for I intend to write it».

Winston Churchill.

«People never lie so much as after a hunt, during a war or before an election».

Otto von Bismack.

«Politicians are the same all over. They promise to built a bridge even when there is no river».

Nikita Khrushchev.

Y por supuesto, el gran Bierce.

Política, s. Medio de vida castigado por el sector más degradado de nuestra clase criminal.

Política, s. Lucha de intereses enmascarada como enfrentamiento de principios. Conducción de los asuntos públicos en busca de ventajas personales.

Político, adj. Anguila en el lodo fundamental sobre el que se erige la superestructura de la sociedad organizada. Cuando se sacude, confunde la agitación de su cola con el temblor del edificio. Comparada con el estadista, sufre la desventaja de estar viva.

Ambrose Bierce, El diccionario del Diablo.