We are, largely, who we remember ourselves to be. That’s why habits are so hard to break. If we know ourselves to be liars, we expect not to tell the truth. If we think of ourselves as honest, we try harder.~White Cat by Holly Black
Thursday, August 29, 2013
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
That sand into which we bury ourselves in order not to see, is formed of words…and it is true that words, their labyrinths, the exhausting immensity of their “possibles”, in short their treachery, have something of quicksand about them.
Georges Bataille, L’expérience intérieure
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Sunday, August 11, 2013
Call it what you will. Is it so hard to conceive of God with one’s senses? Why must he hide in a mist of vague promises and invisible miracles? How are we to believe the believers when we don’t believe ourselves? What will become of us who want to believe, but cannot? And what of those who neither will nor can believe? Why can I not kill God within me? Why does he go on living in a painful, humiliating way? I want to tear him out of my heart. But He remains a mocking reality which I cannot get rid of. I want knowledge. Not belief. Not surmise. But knowledge. I want God to put out his hand, show his face, speak to me. But he is silent. I cry to him in the dark, but there seems to be no one there.
— The Seventh Seal (Ingmar Bergman, 1957)
I lie here alone and in silence, enveloped in the manifold black wrappings of darkness, tedium, unfreedom, and winter - and yet my heart beats with an immeasurable and incomprehensible inner joy, just as if I were moving in the brilliant sunshine across a flowery mead. And in the darkness I smile at life, as if I were the possessor of charm which would enable me to transform all that is evil and tragical into serenity and happiness. But when I search my mind for the cause of this joy, I find there is no cause, and can only laugh at myself. I believe that the key to the riddle is simply life itself; this deep darkness of night is soft and beautiful as velvet, if only one looks at it in the right way.
— Rosa Luxemburg, letter from prison, Mid-December, 1917
Sunday, August 4, 2013
Where the people did not
They had gone unto the wars,
Trusting to the mild-eyed
Nightly, from their azure
To keep watch above the
In the midst of which all day
The red sun-light lazily lay.
Now each visitor shall confess
The sad valley’s restlessness.
Nothing there is motionless—
Nothing save the airs that
Over the magic solitude.
Ah, by no wind are stirred
That palpitate like the chill
Around the misty Hebrides!
Ah, by no wind those clouds
That rustle through the
Uneasily, from morn till even,
Over the violets there that
In myriad types of the human
Over the lilies there that
And weep above a nameless
They wave:—from out their
External dews come down in
They weep:—from off their
Perennial tears descend in
The Valley of Unrest ~ Edgar Allan Poe
Thursday, August 1, 2013
I dug, beneath the cypress shade,
What well might seem an elfin's grave;
And every pledge in earth I laid,
That erst thy false affection gave.
I pressed them down the sod beneath;
I placed one mossy stone above;
And twined the rose's fading wreath
Around the sepulchre of love.
Frail as thy love, the flowers were dead,
Ere yet the evening sun was set:
But years shall see the cypress spread,
Immutable as my regret.
~Thomas Love Peacock
The day has pass’d in storms, though not unmix’d
With transitory calm. The western clouds,
Dissolving slow, unveil the glorious sun,
Majestic in decline. The wat’ry east
Glows with the many-tinted arch of Heav’n.
We hail it as a pledge that brighter skies
Shall bless the coming morn. Thus rolls the day,
The short dark day of life; with tempests thus,
And fleeting sun-shine chequer’d. At its close,
When the dread hour draws near, that bursts all ties,
All commerce with the world, Religion pours
Hope’s fairy-colors on the virtuous mind,
And, like the rain-bow on the ev’ning clouds,
Gives the bright promise that a happier dawn
Shall chase the night and silence of the grave.
~The Rain-bow ~ Thomas Love Peacock 1785–1866