No more was then said, but the remark horrified Fielding. He couldn’t bear to think of the queer honest girl losing her money and possibly her young man too. She advanced into his consciousness suddenly. And, fatigued by the merciless and enormous day, he lost his usual sane view of human intercourse, and felt that we exist not in ourselves, but in terms of each other’s minds - a notion for which logic offers no support and which had attacked him only once before, the evening after the catastrophe, when from the verandah of the club he saw the fists and fingers of the Marabar swell until they included the whole night sky.
E.M. Forster, A Passage to India
Although her hard school-mistressy manner remained, she was no longer examining life, but being examined by it; she had become a real person.
E.M. Forster, A Passage to India
Outside, the fire-red, gas-blue, ghost-green signs shone smokily through the tranquil rain. It was late afternoon and the streets were in movement; the bistros gleamed. At the corner of the Boulevard des Capucines he took a taxi. The Place de la Concorde moved by in pink majesty; they crossed the logical Seine, and Charlie felt the sudden provincial quality of the Left Bank.
F. Scott Fitzgerald, Babylon Revisited
When the new house was finished Peter Hamill, a dear friend of father’s, came to see it. I heard him say to father: ‘Ye’ll have to be taken out the window if ye die upstairs.’
Father said he didn’t care how his coffin was taken out. The landing top of the stairs was too short on which to turn a coffin.
People in Ireland never forget that they have to die. Even at the building of a new house the thought of the last going out was in somebody’s mind.

Patrick Kavanagh, The Green Fool
Our philosophy is what it is because it finds itself mounted upon the shoulders of its predecessors - like “the human tower” number performed in the circus by a family of acrobats. Or, if you prefer another image, one can view philosophizing humanity as a long, long road that must be traversed century after century, but a road that in the process winds upon itself, and becomes a load on the traveler’s back - it is transformed from a road into luggage.
José Ortega y Gasset, The Origin of Philosophy
While the child’s boredom is often recognized as an incapacity, it is usually denied as an opportunity. A precociously articulate eleven-year-old boy was referred to me because, in his mother’s words, he was ‘more miserable than he realized’, and had no friends because of his ‘misleading self-representation’. For several weeks, while we got to know each other, he chatted fluently in a quite happy, slightly dissociated way about his vast array of interests and occupations. The only significant negative transference occurred when he mentioned, in passing, that he might sometimes be too busy to come and see me. He was mostly in state of what I can only describe as blank exuberance about how full his life was. As he was terrified of his own self-doubt, I asked him very few questions, and they were always tactful. But at one point, more direct than I intended to be, I asked him if he was ever bored. He was surprised by the question and replied, with a gloominess I hadn’t seen before in this relentlessly cheerful child, ‘I’m not allowed to be bored.’ I asked him what would happen if he allowed himself to be bored, and he paused for the first time, I think, in the treatment, and said ‘I wouldn’t know what I was looking forward to,’ and was momentarily, quite panic-stricken by this thought. This led us, over the next year, into discussion of what in one language would be called this boy’s false self. Being good, in terms of the maternal demand, was having lots of interests; interests, that is, of a respectable, embarrassing sort, nothing that could make him feel awkward and strong. In the course of the treatment he gradually developed in himself a new capacity, the capacity to be bored. I once suggested to him that being good was a way of stopping people knowing him, to which he agreed but added, ‘When I’m bored I don’t know myself!’
Adam Phillips, ‘On Boredom’, from One Way and Another: New and Selected Essays

What comes back to me freely, delightfully, is the vision of those untried years. Never did a poor fellow have more; never was an ingenuous youth more passionately and yet more patiently eager for what life might bring. Now that life has brought something, brought a measurement part of what I wanted then - to see something of the world. I have seen a good deal of it, and I look at the past in the light of this knowledge. What strikes me is the definiteness, the unerringness of those longings. I wanted to do very much what I have done, and success, if I may say so, now stretches back a tender hand to its younger brother, desire. I remember the days, the hours, the books, the seasons, the winter skies and darkened rooms of summer. I remember the old walks, the old efforts, the old exaltations and depressions. I remember more than I can say here today. x x x x x
Henry James, Cambridge December 26th, 1881, from The Notebooks of Henry James