1.

It was almost perfectly symbolic, the way the Pyrenees mountains stood as a barrier between France and neutral Spain. Physically or politically, its purpose had been served—it was September 1940, and Europe was ablaze with war.

Walter Benjamin, the famed German, or more notably at the time, Jewish philosopher stood at the foot of the mountains, a combination of exhaustion and desperation defining his posture. In his possession: a large black briefcase, rumored to contain his final, all-encompassing manuscript.

Benjamin had fled his home in Paris as the Nazis advanced, joining a group of refugees attempting a perilous journey to cross over into Spain. It was a deadly combination of terrain and bad health, a miracle in which Benjamin survived.

The Spanish border town of Portbou was the destination, and upon the group’s arrival, fate had intervened once again: the border had been closed, denying entry to all refugees.

Faced with the prospects of being turned into the Nazis, he trudged back to the hotel where the group found refuge, the narrow streets grasping tighter around him. Inside his room, he placed his briefcase on the desk, and with trembling hands reached not for his prized manuscript, but for the vial of morphine he had kept for this very possibility.

The rest of his group was allowed to cross the border the very next day while he lay motionless, steps away from his destination.

2.

There’s an story told in When Bad Things Happen To Good People (one of the most influential books of all time) of two shopkeepers who work right across from one another. The two are brutal rivals, sworn enemies who work day in and day out to ensure that the other can’t gain a competitive advantage over the other.

One day, an angel comes down from Heaven to visit one of the shopkeepers with a request from God. I will grant you whatever you’d like, the angel says, but whatever you receive, your neighbor will receive double. You want to be rich? They’ll be richer. You want a larger store? Theirs will be even bigger.

The shopkeeper contemplated, before resting on a decision.

His one wish: “Strike me blind in one eye.”

3.

He was one of the world’s most renowned philosophers. Building off of Kant’s legacy wasn’t exactly the easiest task for a philosopher, nor anybody who could stand up to the task.

Except for Arthur Schopenhauer.

The World as Will and Representation was his seminal work, bound to be engraved into the philosophical canon. Pessimism had never taken such a prominent stance in philosophy, and for a notable period, his arguments certainly stood on their own…

…until Hegel came along, taking not only his philosophical integrity, but his audience with him as well. From the top of the philosophical canon, plummeted to the bottom in a matter of moments.

Schopenhauer fled to Italy, attempting to escape the nervous breakdown that followed him. His anxieties and quirks grew to be an impediment to his every action, leaving a shadow of the philosopher he once was.

One evening, Schopenhauer, who was a prominent hater of noise, grew aggravated by the chattering of his seamstress in the hallway outside of his bedroom. Enraged, he pushed her down the stairs; he was forced to pay a monthly allowance to the woman every week until her death.

And when the day of her death arrived, Schopenhauer, per usual, was a man of few words: "Obit anus, abit onus" [The old woman dies, the burden is lifted].

4.

A while back, I was in a old used bookstore, searching for references or possible points of research. Never a fan of mystery, I somehow found myself drawn to the Raymond Chandler section, one filled with titles I had heard of, but never came to contextualize.

I took one particular book off of the shelf, opening it to read the flap, only to find a handwritten message:

“‘Writers — whatever they cost, and however much they are overpaid — are still the cheapest element in picture making.’ And the heart and soul of us all — so keep us alive, dear David.”

No context. No signature. Just the words.

I stood there surrounded by hundreds, thousands of stories, the book resting in one hand, nothing in the other. A note, a collection of words spanning years, perhaps decades, somehow resting in the mind of someone foolishly captivated by its presence. And for some reason, I felt as if I fully possessed the story, the intricacies, the personal nature of such a message that made its historical nature so timeless.

Satisfied, I left empty-handed.