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Everyone of us is shadowed by an illusory person: a false self..We are not very good at recognizing illusions, least of all the ones we cherish about ourselves. (34) Contemplation is not and cannot be a function of this external self. There is an irreducible opposition between the deep transcendent self that awakens only in contemplation, and the superficial, external self which we commonly identify with the first person singular.(7) Our reality, our true self, is hidden in what appears to us to be nothingness....We can rise above this unreality and recover our hidden reality....(281) God Himself begins to live in me not only as my Creator but as my other and true self. (41)
Thomas MertonTag: contemplation true-self
Algunos de nosotros dedicamos la vida entera a mantener oculto un secreto, a salvo de quienes intentan entrometerse y atesorándolo como si fuera una perla, solo para acabar descubriendo que se nos escapa cuando menos lo esperamos, revelado por un destello de miedo en los ojos cuando nos pillan desprevenidos, por un dolor repentino, rabia u odio, o por una vergüenza que lo consume todo.
C.W. GortnerTag: el-secreto-de-los-tudor gortner
Aprendí que Tarbean es enorme. Si no lo has visto con tus propios ojos, no puedes imaginarlo. Es como el océano. Por mucho que te hayan hablado del agua y de las olas, no te haces una idea de su tamaño hasta que te plantas en la orilla. No comprendes realmente el océano hasta que te hallas en medio de él, rodeado de agua por todos los lados extendiéndose hasta el infinito. Solo entonces comprendes lo pequeño e impotente que eres.
Patrick RothfussThere can be no progress without head-on confrontation.
Christopher HitchensTag: progress argument confrontation
Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.
E.L. DoctorowTag: quoted-by-wally-lamb
The actual stronghold of a man is inaccessible, almost invisible, until friends and enemies turn traitor- and lead him there by a secret path
Friedrich NietzscheRemember, Thursday, that scientific thought -- indeed, any mode of thought, whether it be religious or philosophical or anything else -- is just like the fashions that we wear -- only much longer lived. It's a little like a boy band."
"Scientific thought a boy band? How do you figure that?"
"Well, every now and then a boy band comes along. We like it, buy the records, posters, parade them on TV, idolise them right up until --"
...
"-- the next boy band?" I suggested.
"Precisely. Aristotle was a boy band. A very good one but only number six or seven. He was the best boy band until Isaac Newton, but even Newton was transplanted by an even newer boy band. Same haircuts -- but different moves."
"Einstein, right?"
"Right. Do you see what I'm saying?"
"I think so."
"Good. So try and think of maybe thirty or forty boy bands past Einstein. To where we would regard Einstein as someone who glimpsed a truth, played one good chord on seven forgettable albums."
"Where is this going, Dad?"
"I'm nearly there. Imagine a boy band so good that you never needed another boy band ever again. Can you imagine that?
It happens that in our phase of civility, the novel is the central form of literary art. It lends itself to explanations borrowed from any intellectual system of the universe which seems at the time satisfactory. Its history is an attempt to evade the laws of what Scott called 'the land of fiction'-the stereotypes which ignore reality, and whose remoteness from it we identify as absurd. From Cervantes forward it has been, when it has satisfied us, the poetry which is 'capable,' in the words of Ortega, 'of coping with present reality.' But it is a 'realistic poetry' and its theme is, bluntly, 'the collapse of the poetic' because it has to do with 'the barbarous, brutal, mute, meaningless reality of things.' It cannot work with the old hero, or with the old laws of the land of romance; moreover, such new laws and customs as it creates have themselves to be repeatedly broken under the demands of a changed and no less brutal reality. 'Reality has such a violent temper that it does not tolerate the ideal even when reality itself is idealized.' Nevertheless, the effort continues to be made. The extremest revolt against the customs or laws of fiction--the antinovels of Fielding or Jane Austen or Flaubert or Natalie Sarraute--creates its new laws, in their turn to be broken. Even when there is a profession of complete narrative anarchy, as in some of the works I discussed last week, or in a poem such as Paterson, which rejects as spurious whatever most of us understand as form, it seems that time will always reveal some congruence with a paradigm--provided always that there is in the work that necessary element of the customary which enables it to communicate at all.
I shall not spend much time on matters so familiar to you. Whether, with Lukács, you think of the novel as peculiarly the resolution of the problem of the individual in an open society--or as relating to that problem in respect of an utterly contingent world; or express this in terms of the modern French theorists and call its progress a necessary and 'unceasing movement from the known to the unknown'; or simply see the novel as resembling the other arts in that it cannot avoid creating new possibilities for its own future--however you put it, the history of the novel is the history of forms rejected or modified, by parody, manifesto, neglect, as absurd. Nowhere else, perhaps, are we so conscious of the dissidence between inherited forms and our own reality.
There is at present some good discussion of the issue not only in French but in English. Here I have in mind Iris Murdoch, a writer whose persistent and radical thinking about the form has not as yet been fully reflected in her own fiction. She contrasts what she calls 'crystalline form' with narrative of the shapeless, quasi-documentary kind, rejecting the first as uncharacteristic of the novel because it does not contain free characters, and the second because it cannot satisfy that need of form which it is easier to assert than to describe; we are at least sure that it exists, and that it is not always illicit. Her argument is important and subtle, and this is not an attempt to restate it; it is enough to say that Miss Murdoch, as a novelist, finds much difficulty in resisting what she calls 'the consolations of form' and in that degree damages the 'opacity,' as she calls it, of character. A novel has this (and more) in common with love, that it is, so to speak, delighted with its own inventions of character, but must respect their uniqueness and their freedom. It must do so without losing the formal qualities that make it a novel. But the truly imaginative novelist has an unshakable 'respect for the contingent'; without it he sinks into fantasy, which is a way of deforming reality. 'Since reality is incomplete, art must not be too afraid of incompleteness,' says Miss Murdoch. We must not falsify it with patterns too neat, too inclusive; there must be dissonance.
Tag: literary-criticism
باستمرار أريد أن أبدأ، حتى نهايتى أريدها بداية، فأنا لا أحب النهاية.. النهاية سخف وضيق أفق.. ما أروع أن نبدأ دائمًا، وأن نبدأ بأن نبدأ، وأن تكون البداية بداية لبداية أجد وأمتع.
يوسف إدريسI have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.
Martin Luther King Jr.Tag: inspirational dream prejudice character race
The ears were large, flaring forward, the eyes limpid amber, in which the pupil floated like a glittering jewel, changing color with shifts of the light: obsidian, emerald, ruby, opal, amethyst, diamond.
William S. BurroughsTag: ecology lemurs madagascar
Life isn’t so bad. I’m not fat (unless you’re Gandhi), I’m not short (unless you’re Goliath), and I’m not ugly (unless you’re James Dean).
Jarod KintzHe barks out a laugh. "My little rebel.
R.L. LaFeversShared joy is double joy," he said brushing a tear from my cheek, "and shared sorrow is half the sorrow.
Valya Dudycz LupescuMemory is the seamstress, and a capricious one at that. Memory runs her needle in and out, up and down, hither and thither. We know not what comes next, or what follows after. Thus, the most ordinary movement in the world, such as sitting down at a table and pulling the inkstand towards one, may agitate a thousand odd, disconnected fragments, now bright, now dim, hanging and bobbing and dipping and flaunting, like the underlinen of a family of fourteen on a line in a gale of wind. Instead of being a single, downright, bluff piece of work of which no man need feel ashamed, our commonest deeds are set about with a fluttering and flickering of wings, a rising and falling of lights.
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