The single greatest thing written by anyone, ever

[Scissorjack]

[QUOTE=Garfield226]
No question.
[/QUOTE]

Yes, but what does it mean?

[jjimm]

I know it would seem to be a cliché to quote Shakespeare, but this moves me to tears whenever I hear or read it. Depression never seemed so beautiful; nor was it ever more aptly conveyed:

…I have of late–but
wherefore I know not–lost all my mirth, forgone all
custom of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily
with my disposition that this goodly frame, the
earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this most
excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave
o’erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted
with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to
me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.
What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason!
how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how
express and admirable! in action how like an angel!
in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the
world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me,
what is this quintessence of dust? man delights not
me: no, nor woman neither…

The contrast between his spiritual and intellectual acknowledgement of the wonders of the universe, yet his emotional inability to appreciate them, is brilliant.

Even just the description of the sky as “this majestical roof fretted with golden fire”. Just… wow.

[glee]

This too shall pass.

[Gozu]

Just these 3 words: “So it goes.”

I’m not sure who the author was but I know he’s dead.

[QUOTE=Two and a Half Inches of Fun]
I would find that writing a little more powerful if the man that wrote it was not a total fucking hypocrite.
[/QUOTE]

Nonsense! It is one thing to believe in higher ideals and quite another to live up to them. We’re all hypocrites anyways.

[Shoeless]

[QUOTE=Gozu]
Just these 3 words: “So it goes.”

I’m not sure who the author was but I know he’s dead.
[/QUOTE]

Kurt Vonnegut, “Slaughterhouse-Five”.

[ForumBot]

I stand behind my passage as the single greatest thing ever written.

The following stands a close second:

[QUOTE=Robert Musil, in The Confusions of Young Törless]
But when he wrote he felt something distinctive, exclusive within him; like an island full of wonderful suns and colours something that surged up within him out of the sea of grey sensations that crowded around him with cold indifference day after day.
[/quote]

[Diogenes_the_Cynic]

The quality of mercy is not strain’d,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.
–Shakespeare (from The Merchant of Venice)

[Rick]

Pretty much a lot of stuff by Shakespeare. I am fond of this passage from Henry the Fifth

This day is called the feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say ‘To-morrow is Saint Crispian:’
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.
And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’
Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
But he’ll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day: then shall our names.
Familiar in his mouth as household words
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember’d;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

[Parthol]

I have always been partial to this, from Tolkien’s Return of the King:

‘Well here we are, just the four of us that started out together,’ said Merry. ‘We have left all the rest behind, one after another. It seems almost like a dream that has slowly faded.’

‘Not to me,’ said Frodo. ‘To me it feels more like falling asleep again’.
It’s such a wonderful way of demonstrating how momentous events can have different effects on different people. And it’s incredibly poignant in the context of the story itself.

[Jas09]

I don’t know about “greatest thing written by anyone, ever”, but this passage from James Joyce’s The Dead has stuck with me since I read it:

A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.

[chappachula]

“it was a dark and stormy night”

*(sorry, but somebody had to do it)

[HoboStew]

I’m a big fan of Hemingway’s 6-word story.

“For Sale: Baby Shoes. Never used.”

[Humble_Servant]

This is something rather great I am carrying around with me now:

Originally by Vladimir Nabokov in Transparent Things:
I shall explain. A thin veneer of reality is spread over natural and artificial matter, and whoever wishes to remain in the now, with the now, on the now, should please not break its tension film. Otherwise, the inexperienced miracle worker will find himself no longer walking on water but descending upright among the staring fish.

Here’s another fishy thing:

Orginally by Henry David Thoreau in Walden:
Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in. I drink at it; but while I drink I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is. Its thin current slides away, but eternity remains. I would drink deeper; fish in the sky, whose bottom is pebbly with stars.

[Amok]

Hard for me to choose just one passage, and if I thought about it tomorrow I might have a different answer. But for today, I’m going to have to go with Mathew Arnold’s Dover Beach; specifically the last verse:

        Ah, love, let us be true
        To one another! for the world, which seems
        To lie before us like a land of dreams,
        So various, so beautiful, so new,
        Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
        Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
        And we are here as on a darkling plain
        Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
        Where ignorant armies clash by night.

[vison]

[QUOTE=Jas09]
I don’t know about “greatest thing written by anyone, ever”, but this passage from James Joyce’s The Dead has stuck with me since I read it:
[/QUOTE]

It is lovely. It makes my short list, for sure.

[Czarcasm]

Billions of dollars of property damage has been avoided and millions of lives have been saved by this one simple phrase:Close Cover Before Striking

[Defensive_Indifference]

I’m not sure I would call this the greatest thing ever written, but I quote it as often as possible:

@Kurt Vonnegut

If I’d been born in Germany, I suppose I would have been a Nazi, bopping Jews and gypsies and Poles around, leaving boots sticking out of snowbanks, warming myself with my secretly virtuous insides.

[Spit]

I turn to Faulkner for the words that form a warming sensation in the center of my belly, slowly rising through my torso until my eyes are forced to close-succumbing to a memory that my own mind did not make:

For every Southern boy fourteen years old, not once but whenever he wants it, there is the instant when it’s still not yet two o’clock on that July afternoon in 1863, the brigades are in position behind the rail fence, the guns are laid and ready in the woods and the furled flags are already loosened to break out and Pickett himself with his long oiled ringlets and his hat in one hand probably and his sword in the other looking up the hill waiting for Longstreet to give the word and it’s all in the balance, it hasn’t happened yet, it hasn’t even begun yet, it not only hasn’t begun yet but there is still time for it not to begin against that position and those circumstances which made more men than Garnett and Kemper and Armistead and Wilcox look grave yet it’s going to begin, we all know that, we have come too far with too much at stake and that moment doesn’t need even a fourteen-year-old boy to think This time.

[Ronald_C.Semone]

It is better to be rich and healthy than to be poor and sick.

[An_Gadai]

I heard a great one today in a review in the Sunday Times Magazine.

“I don’t believe in God but I miss him.”