Βιβλία σαν το «The Consolation of Philosophy»

Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises,Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.Sometimes a thousand twangling instrumentsWill hum about mine ears, and sometime voicesThat, if I then had waked after long sleep,Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming,The clouds methought would open and show richesReady to drop upon me, that, when I waked,I cried to dream again.

As to why such changes are impossible, two reasons may be given. One is that we cannot act in opposition to the bent of our nature. The other, that when a man has been very successful while following a particular method, he can never be convinced that it is for his advantage to try some other. And hence it results that a man’s fortunes vary, because times change and he does not change with them. So, too, with commonwealths, which, as we have already shown at length, are ruined from not altering their institutions to suit the times. And commonwealths are slower to change than princes are, changes costing them more effort; because occasions must be waited for which shall stir the whole community, and it is not enough that a single citizen alters his method of acting.

“I spake; Achilles quickly answered me:—‘Noble Ulysses, speak not thus of death,As if thou couldst console me. I would beA laborer on earth, and serve for hireSome man of mean estate, who makes scant cheer,Rather than reign o’er all who have gone downTo death. Speak rather of my noble son,Whether or not he yet has joined the warsTo fight among the foremost of the host.

Ὅμως τὸ ἄπιστο φιλὶ νεκρὸ ἀνασηκόνεικαὶ ζωντανεύει τὸ κορμὶ ποὺ χῶμα τὸ πλακόνει.Ἀκούει μέσ’ στὸν ὕπνο του τὸν πρῶτο βυθισμένοςτῆς νύφης του τὸ φίλημα ὁ νειός ὁ πεθαμμένος·τὸν ὄρκο του θυμήθηκε κι’ ὁ τάφος του ἀνοίγει·σὲ μαῦρο ἀπάνω βρέθηκε, λάκκους σταυροὺς πηδάει,τὸν βλέπουν τ’ ἄστρα τρέμουνε, ἡ γῆ ζητεῖ νὰ φύγῃκαὶ χαλινάρι δὲν κρατεῖ· ὁ Μαῦρος ὁδηγάει·φεὺγει, πετᾷ· τὰ πέταλλα σπίθαις, φωτιαὶς σκορπᾶνεκαὶ φέγγουνε τὸ δρόμο τους· ἀλλοίμονο, ποῦ πᾶνε!

Everything, in contemplation, that is personal or private, everything that depends upon habit, self-interest, or desire, distorts the object, and hence impairs the union which the intellect seeks. By thus making a barrier between subject and object, such personal and private things become a prison to the intellect. The free intellect will see as God might see, without a here and now, without hopes and fears, without the trammels of customary beliefs and traditional prejudices, calmly, dispassionately, in the sole and exclusive desire of knowledge—knowledge as impersonal, as purely contemplative, as it is possible for man to attain.

But because there is nothing beyond old age, we call that long. All these things are said to be long or short, according to the proportion of time they were given us for. Artistotle says there is a kind of insect near the river Hypanis, which runs from a certain part of Europe into the Pontus, whose life consists but of one day. Those that die at the eighth hour die in full age; those who die when the sun sets are very old, especially when the days are at the longest. Compare our longest life with eternity, and we shall be found almost as short-lived as those little animals.