The eruption of lived pleasure is such that in losing myself I find myself; forgetting that I exist, I realize myself.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
As years passed away I have formed the habit of looking back upon that former self as upon another person, the remembrance of whose emotions has been a solace in adversity and added zest to the enjoyment of prosperity.
I cherish all of the times I've fallen on my face and made mistakes, because those experiences have made me who I am.
The experiencing self lives its life continuously. It has moments of experience, one after the other.
Loss doesn't feel redeemable. But for me one consoling aspect is the recognition that, in this at least, none of us is different from anyone else: We all lose loved ones; we all face our own death.
It is the paradox of life that the way to miss pleasure is to seek it first. The very first condition of lasting happiness is that a life should be full of purpose, aiming at something outside self.
By recollecting the pleasures I have had formerly, I renew them, I enjoy them a second time, while I laugh at the remembrance of troubles now past, and which I no longer feel.
I've forgotten what it's like to remember. I've lost the mindless confidence that a moment, an idea, a thought will be there for me later, the bravado of breezing through experience in the certainty that it will become part of my self, part of my story.
Once a week, I like to slip into a deep existential depression where I lose all my sense of oneness and self-worth.
To a man of pleasure every moment appears to be lost, which partakes not of the vivacity of amusement.
At the moment you are no longer an observing, reflecting being; you have ceased to be aware of yourself; you exist only in that quiet, steady thrill that is so unlike any excitement that you have ever known.