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I thought: "I am perishing of cold and hunger, and here is a man thinking only of how to clothe himself and his wife, and how to get bread for themselves. He cannot help me. When the man saw me he frowned and became still more terrible, and passed me by on the other side. I despaired, but suddenly I heard him coming back. I looked up, and did not recognize the same man: before, I had seen death in his face; but now he was alive, and I recognized in him the presence of God.

 

Leo Tolstoy

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My wife gave him some Swiss cheese and rye bread for lunch, which he greatly liked. Thereafter he more or less insisted on eating bread and cheese at all meals, largely ignoring the various dishes that my wife prepared. Wittgenstein declared that it did not much matter to him what he ate, so long as it always remained the same. When a dish that looked especially appetizing was brought to the table, I sometimes exclaimed "Hot Ziggety!" — a slang phrase that I learned as a boy in Kansas. Wittgenstein picked up this expression from me. It was inconceivably droll to hear him exclaim "Hot Ziggety!" when my wife put the bread and cheese before him.

 

Ludwig Wittgenstein

 

In the terrible years of Yezhov terror I spent seventeen months waiting in line outside the prison in Leningrad. One day somebody in the crowd identified me. Standing behind me was a woman with lips blue from the cold, who had, of course, never heard me called by name before. Now she started out of the torpor common to us all and asked me in a whisper (everyone whispered there):
"Can you describe this?"
And I said: "I can."
Then something like a smile passed fleetingly over what had once been her face.
— Leningrad, 1 April 1957

 

Anna Akhmatova

 

"Hey, who wants to hear the stories about my ruptured ovarian cysts? Do you? It's great. It is a story that has been passed down from generation to generation and we love it. So here's the story. I was looping a film, and I sneezed, and passed out. They thought I had appendicitis so they took me to the hospital, but as it turns out, I had ruptured a series of ovarian cysts that unbeknownst to me were residing in my area, and as you know if you've seen me work before I still have the 'don't ask don't tell' policy with my vagina. I don't bother it. It- She. She minds her own beeswax. I stay up here. She doesn't sass me. You know no back talk. None of that. She's not flippant at all with me. So we had to find out about my cyst by having a very thorough exam by the gynecologist. Again, another cure for hubris if you're suffering from that. Whilst he's down there, he peers up from between my knees and goes 'you know my wife and I... LOVE you on The Larry Sanders Show!' And I was like 'That is so great and now I think you can enjoy it on a whole 'nother level, you and your wife!' And with that I left the office, and the thing is is that I've noticed is that I get recognized rarely but only at inconvenient times when it would be not good to be recognized. There is- uhm.. Whenever I'm coming out of a public restroom. Usually Starbucks, go figure. I don't know why but inevitably someone will be like a fan out of the restroom but let me say this and you know I don't like to work blue and this next theory is not for the squeamish but let me just say this. I'll put it this way. The person who was in the bathroom prior to me? Let's say, compromised the integrity of the room? Shall we say? Kind of had their way with the bowl. And hey man I know the stall she is a harsh mistress sometimes. I know that. I'm no stranger to the fight but, it's not me! You know? And so it's like the person ahead of me who shows no respect and, I'll come out and the person's about to go in and I'm just like 'aw man.' Because you know they're gonna say, 'I saw the girl I don't know what her name is but that girl, she stinks!' "

 

Janeane Garofalo

 

I was suddenly carried away by rage to the point of losing all control over my frenzy. "Ah!" I cried, "since you will not do justice on yourself, die then, at once!" I stretched out my hand and seized the dagger which he had recently placed upon the table. He looked at me without flinching, or recoiling; indeed presenting his breast to me, as though to brave my childish rage. I was on his left bending down, and ready to spring. I saw his smile of contempt, and then with all my strength I struck him with the knife in the direction of the heart.
The blade entered his body to the hilt.
No sooner had I done this thing than I recoiled, wild with terror at the deed. He uttered a cry. His face was distorted with terrible agony, and he moved his right hand towards the wound, as though he would draw out the dagger. He looked at me, convulsed; I saw that he wanted to speak; his lips moved, but no sound issued from his mouth. The expression of a supreme effort passed into his eyes, he turned to the table, took a pen, dipped it into the inkstand, and traced two lines on a sheet of paper within his reach. He looked at me again, his lips moved once more, then he fell down like a log.

 

Paul Bourget

 

Amy Arbus: "Madonna just wandered along like everyone else. I recognized her as the girl who went to my gym — as the girl who would sit around naked longest in the locker room. Now that I think back on it, how could either of us have afforded a gym membership? She still had a last name at that point, and when I told her I worked for the Voice, she said, 'Oh, that’s so funny. They’re reviewing my first single this week.' I recently looked back—it only took six frames to get that picture. I just think the look on her face is so prescient—it really has a sense of knowing what’s in store for her."

 

Madonna