April 23, 2013 § 22 Comments
Immanuel Kant believed that we humans, because we are so emotionally complex, go through two puberties in life. The first puberty is when our bodies become mature enough for sex; the second puberty is when our minds become mature enough for sex. The two events can be separated by many, many years. Perhaps our emotional maturity comes to us only through the experiences and lessons of our youthful romantic failures. Maybe we all need to go through the anguish and errors of a first puberty, before we can ascend into the second one.
~commitment, elizabeth gilbert.
March 15, 2013 § 8 Comments
Humans, in their love relationships, are like porcupines out on a cold winter night. In order to keep from freezing the animals huddle close together. But as soon as they are near enough to provide critical warmth, they get poked by each other’s quills. Reflexively, to stop the pain and irritation of too much closeness, the porcupines separate. But once they separate, they become cold again. The chill sends them back toward each other once more, only to be impaled all over again by each other’s quills. So they retreat again. And then approach again. Endlessly.
And the cycle repeats, as they struggle to find a comfortable distance between entanglement and freezing.
~Deborah Luepnitz, from the book Schopenhauer’s Porcupines.
January 7, 2013 § 15 Comments
Following is a mail i received from a friend a while ago. Makes sense. I thought i must share.
To not know can be the source of all doubts and discomfort, ignorance is bliss? It’s hard to be ignorant and feel blissful. I think one knows all and is ignorant of nothing. Thereby being ignorant of something, which is nothing enabling that one to be blissful. My angst lies in not knowing the answer to the questions in life, primarily ‘who am I?’ , ‘what is my purpose?’ And so on. The questions gnawed at me, exposing my weaknesses. I still don’t know. I know who you are, I feel lost as always as I don’t know me. That’s probably something that rankles me all the time. Dissonance for almost everything. That’s it for the day, I need to find the path. Sad? Happy? I felt complete with you, this whole idea of the world being polychromatic is a sham. People are monochromatic. I’m wrong, I’m right, I see, I don’t see, I don’t know, I know. Nothing and something and everything and anything, all is what all seek. I guess I can think? The illusions created, how far can you actually see through them? Being the self and unified with all the other self’s. Maybe I’m wrong, I worry because I am wrong. To see and feel, to feel without contact. Must be madness, engulfed by the world makes madness negative, me thinks that is. I don’t know, this was a rant. Live fast, run faster. Life’s speedy and a rut to move about.
Pip pip, ma cher,
December 27, 2012 § 14 Comments
I don’t sin
I am the sin.
I don’t want love
I am love.
I don’t write poetry
I am poetry.
I don’t see the point
I am the point.
I don’t do drugs
I am the drug.
I don’t die
October 9, 2012 § 34 Comments
The artist is the creator of beautiful things.To reveal art and conceal the artist is art’s aim.
Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault.
Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope.
They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only Beauty.
The moral life of man forms part of the subject matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium. No artist desires to prove anything.
No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style.
No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything.
Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art.
All art is at once surface and symbol.
Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.
Those who read the symbol do so at their peril.
It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.
Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex and vital.
When critics disagree the artist is in accord with himself.
We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.
All art, is quite useless.
Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray.