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From the heart of the fountain of delight rises a jet of bitterness that tortures us among the very flowers.

Lucretius

The wailing of the newborn infant is mingled with the dirge for the dead.
LUCRETIUS

Anand Thakur
It’s easier to avoid the snares of love than to escape once you are in that net.
LUCRETIUS

Anand Thakur
The mask is torn off, while the reality remains
LUCRETIUS

Anand Thakur
Violence and injury enclose in their net all that do such things, and generally return upon him who began.
LUCRETIUS

Anand Thakur
To ask for power is forcing uphill a stone which after all rolls back again from the summit and seeks in headlong haste the levels of the plain.
LUCRETIUS

Anand Thakur
By protracting life, we do not deduct one jot from the duration of death.
LUCRETIUS

Death Life Oneself
Out beyond our world there are, elsewhere, other assemblages of matter making other worlds. Ours is not the only one in air’s embrace.
LUCRETIUS

Anand Thakur
Now come: that thou mayst able be to know That minds and the light souls of all that live Have mortal birth and death, I will go on Verses to build meet for thy rule of life, Sought after long, discovered with sweet toil.
LUCRETIUS

Anand Thakur
Tears for the mourners who are left behind Peace everlasting for the quiet dead.
LUCRETIUS

Anand Thakur
Religious questions have often led to wicked and impious actions.
LUCRETIUS

Anand Thakur
Such crimes has superstition caused.
LUCRETIUS

Crime Reason Superstition
There is no place in nature for extinction.
LUCRETIUS

Anand Thakur
There can be no centre in infinity.
LUCRETIUS

Anand Thakur
Tis pleasant to stand on shore and watch others labouring in a stormy sea.
LUCRETIUS

Anand Thakur
All life is a struggle in the dark.
LUCRETIUS

Darkness Life One Liner Struggle
In the midst of the fountain of wit there arises something bitter, which stings in the very flowers.
LUCRETIUS

Anand Thakur

From the heart of the fountain of delight rises a jet of bitterness that tortures us among the very flowers.

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From the heart of the fountain of delight rises a jet of bitterness that tortures us among the very flowers.

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