... by Andre Gide has some interesting presecptives while the search of one's true identity continues ...
There are thousands way of life and each of us can know only one. It's madness to envy other people's happiness. Happiness doesn't come off the peg, it has to be made to measure. I leave tomorrow. I know- I have tried to tailor this happiness to fit me ... You hang on to the comfortable happiness of home life.
People don’t want to be like themselves. They all choose a model to imitate, or, if they don’t choose a model themselves, they accept one ready-made.
30 December 2010
29 December 2010
George Eliot ...
What greater thing is there for two human souls
than to feel that they are joined together to strengthen
each other in all labor, to minister to each other in all sorrow,
to share with each other in all gladness,
to be one with each other in the
silent unspoken memories?
than to feel that they are joined together to strengthen
each other in all labor, to minister to each other in all sorrow,
to share with each other in all gladness,
to be one with each other in the
silent unspoken memories?
13 December 2010
The beauty of psychiatry ...
... is wonderfully summed up by Lyall Watson ...
"If the brain were so simple we could understand it, we would be so simple we couldn't."
"If the brain were so simple we could understand it, we would be so simple we couldn't."
03 December 2010
Wislawa Szymborska ...
... "Going Home" describes my stay at my parents' during this snowy month, as my flat waits for its new coat to be perfectly tailored ...
He came home. Said nothing.
It was clear, though, that something had gone wrong.
He lay down fully dressed.
Pulled the blanket over his head.
Tucked up his knees.
He's nearly forty, but not at the moment.
He exists just as he did inside his mother's womb,
clad in seven walls of skin, in sheltered darkness.
Tomorrow he'll give a lecture
on homeostasis in metagalactic cosmonautics.
For now, though, he has curled up and gone to sleep.
... while "The Three Oddest Words" keeps you wonder about the beauty of languages ...
When I pronounce the word Future,
the first syllable already belongs to the past.
When I pronounce the word Silence,
I destroy it.
When I pronounce the word Nothing,
I make something no non-being can hold.
He came home. Said nothing.
It was clear, though, that something had gone wrong.
He lay down fully dressed.
Pulled the blanket over his head.
Tucked up his knees.
He's nearly forty, but not at the moment.
He exists just as he did inside his mother's womb,
clad in seven walls of skin, in sheltered darkness.
Tomorrow he'll give a lecture
on homeostasis in metagalactic cosmonautics.
For now, though, he has curled up and gone to sleep.
... while "The Three Oddest Words" keeps you wonder about the beauty of languages ...
When I pronounce the word Future,
the first syllable already belongs to the past.
When I pronounce the word Silence,
I destroy it.
When I pronounce the word Nothing,
I make something no non-being can hold.
01 December 2010
Beautiful winter ...
... wavers its magical wand among the silent falling snow flakes ...
"Never are voices so beautiful as on a winter's evening, when dusk almost hides the body, and they seem to issue from nothingness with a note of intimacy seldom heard by day." - Virginia Woolf ...
... while waiting for shopot zvyozd ("whispering of the stars", as your breaths freeze and fall onto the ground in Siberia) ...
"Never are voices so beautiful as on a winter's evening, when dusk almost hides the body, and they seem to issue from nothingness with a note of intimacy seldom heard by day." - Virginia Woolf ...
... while waiting for shopot zvyozd ("whispering of the stars", as your breaths freeze and fall onto the ground in Siberia) ...
22 November 2010
On the Road ...
... by Jack Kerouac ...
... "I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes 'Awww!' ...
... "I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes 'Awww!' ...
18 November 2010
The most difficult of all our tasks ...
For one human being to love another; that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation.
~ Rainer Maria Rilke
~ Rainer Maria Rilke
13 November 2010
Love in the Time of Cholera ...
... by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Together they had overcome the daily incomprehension, the instantaneous hatred, the reciprocal nastiness and fabulous flashes of glory in the conjugal conspiracy. It was the time when they loved each other best, without hurry or excess, when both were most conscious of and grateful for their incredible victories over adversity. Life would still present them with other mortal trials, of course, but that no longer mattered: they were on the other shore.
Together they had overcome the daily incomprehension, the instantaneous hatred, the reciprocal nastiness and fabulous flashes of glory in the conjugal conspiracy. It was the time when they loved each other best, without hurry or excess, when both were most conscious of and grateful for their incredible victories over adversity. Life would still present them with other mortal trials, of course, but that no longer mattered: they were on the other shore.
19 October 2010
First Morning of Spring ...
is the title of a beautiful print by Rob Ryan ...
... especially if you have a bottle of tears stored somewhere ...
... but with a specific end date, as you slowly coming to the conclusion that ....
Delay ...
... by Elizabeth Jennings is simple but intriguing in the wonderful combination of encounters in life ...
The radiance of the star that leans on me
Was shining years ago. The light that now
Glitters up there my eyes may never see,
And so the time lag teases me with how
Love that loves now may not reach me until
Its first desire is spent. The star's impulse
Must wait for eyes to claim it beautiful
And love arrived may find us somewhere else.
The radiance of the star that leans on me
Was shining years ago. The light that now
Glitters up there my eyes may never see,
And so the time lag teases me with how
Love that loves now may not reach me until
Its first desire is spent. The star's impulse
Must wait for eyes to claim it beautiful
And love arrived may find us somewhere else.
08 October 2010
The Word ...
... by Tony Hoagland ... just reading it makes you smile and longs for the simple wondrous things in life, especially sunshine ...
Down near the bottom
of the crossed-out list
of things you have to do today,
between "green thread"
and "broccoli" you find
that you have penciled "sunlight."
Resting on the page, the word
is as beautiful, it touches you
as if you had a friend
and sunlight were a present
he had sent you from some place distant
as this morning -- to cheer you up,
and to remind you that,
among your duties, pleasure
is a thing,
that also needs accomplishing
Do you remember?
that time and light are kinds
of love, and love
is no less practical
than a coffee grinder
or a safe spare tire?
Tomorrow you may be utterly
without a clue
but today you get a telegram,
from the heart in exile
proclaiming that the kingdom
still exists,
the king and queen alive,
still speaking to their children,
- to any one among them
who can find the time,
to sit out in the sun and listen.28 September 2010
Nietzsche asked ...
... What else is love, but understanding and rejoicing in the fact that another person lives, acts and experiences otherwise than we do?
23 September 2010
A disappearing number ...
... is a beautiful play, using mathematical concepts, rhythmic music, patterns in space to explain ideas, emotions, loss, linking the past, present and future into infinity ...
The convergent infinite series was used to illustrate love, marriage, children ...
A mathematician, like a painter or a poet, is a maker of patterns. If his patterns are more permanent than theirs, it is because they are made with ideas... The mathematician's patterns, like the painter's or the poet's, must be beautiful; the ideas, like the colours or the words, must fit together in a harmonious way... It may be very hard to define mathematical beauty, but that is just as true of beauty of any kind — we may not know quite what we mean by a beautiful poem, but that does not prevent us from recognizing one when we read it.
- G. H. Hardy, "A Mathematician's Apology"
18 August 2010
The heartache can wait ...
... by Brandi Carlile is an interesting Christmas song, especially when it is discovered in August, but the piano and cello, together with her voice, is beautiful and it reminds me of a December day in a bustling cafe in central London ....
You're talking about leaving
It's right about Christmas time
Thinking about moving on
I think I might die inside
I'm thinking about years gone by
I'm thinking about church at midnight
I'm thinking about letting go
I think that might finally be alright
But this is where we shine
Silver bells and open fire
And songs we used to sing
One more chance to be inspired
Is what I'm offering if love is not enough
Then stay with me because
The heartache can wait
It's not about hanging on
It's making my deal with God
If I could call one last truce
We've given it all we've got
Then I'm gonna catch my breath
And make it a long December
If we've got nothing left
This could be worth remembering
With a smile upon my face
You're talking about leaving
It's right about Christmas time
Thinking about moving on
I think I might die inside
I'm thinking about years gone by
I'm thinking about church at midnight
I'm thinking about letting go
I think that might finally be alright
But this is where we shine
Silver bells and open fire
And songs we used to sing
One more chance to be inspired
Is what I'm offering if love is not enough
Then stay with me because
The heartache can wait
It's not about hanging on
It's making my deal with God
If I could call one last truce
We've given it all we've got
Then I'm gonna catch my breath
And make it a long December
If we've got nothing left
This could be worth remembering
With a smile upon my face
13 August 2010
Epilogue ...
... By Kei Miller is a simple poem, full of hopes about the other side of the coin ...
Let us not repeat the easy lies about eternity
and love. We have fallen out of love
before - like children surpassing
the borders of their beds, woken
by gravity, the suddenness of tiles.
So it is we have opened our eyes
in the dark, found ourselves far
from all that was safe and soft.
So it is we have nursed red bruises.
If we are amazed at anything let it be this:
not that we have fallen from love,
but that we were always resurrected
into it, like children who climb sweetly
back into bed.
Let us not repeat the easy lies about eternity
and love. We have fallen out of love
before - like children surpassing
the borders of their beds, woken
by gravity, the suddenness of tiles.
So it is we have opened our eyes
in the dark, found ourselves far
from all that was safe and soft.
So it is we have nursed red bruises.
If we are amazed at anything let it be this:
not that we have fallen from love,
but that we were always resurrected
into it, like children who climb sweetly
back into bed.
12 August 2010
The sea ...
... is a beautiful song written by Corinne Bailey Rae after her husband's sudden death from a cocaine overdose ... The pain in her voice temporarily stopped the chaotic world from spinning more unanswerable questions ...
I never knew you were standing on the shore,
It says everything,
Explains everything.
That from then on it couldn't be just like before,
it says everything,
Changes everything.
So don't you stand there wishing your life would fade away
And don't you go round with anyone who makes you feel ashamed.
Goodbye paradise,
I hope there's something you could try
Goodbye
You're so changed that you'd give it all away
Goodbye,
Goodbye
I saw your face in the faded light,
Said everything,
Explained everything.
It haunts all your days and it comes to you at night,
You did everything,
Blame anything.
But don't you cut those ribbons to take away the pain
And don't you go round with that same old crowd,
They make you feel ashamed
Goodbye paradise,
I hope there's something you could try
Goodbye
You're so changed that you'd give it all away
Goodbye,
Goodbye paradise
The sea,
The majestic sea,
Breaks everything,
Crushes everything,
Cleans everything,
Takes everything
From me
I never knew you were standing on the shore,
It says everything,
Explains everything.
That from then on it couldn't be just like before,
it says everything,
Changes everything.
So don't you stand there wishing your life would fade away
And don't you go round with anyone who makes you feel ashamed.
Goodbye paradise,
I hope there's something you could try
Goodbye
You're so changed that you'd give it all away
Goodbye,
Goodbye
I saw your face in the faded light,
Said everything,
Explained everything.
It haunts all your days and it comes to you at night,
You did everything,
Blame anything.
But don't you cut those ribbons to take away the pain
And don't you go round with that same old crowd,
They make you feel ashamed
Goodbye paradise,
I hope there's something you could try
Goodbye
You're so changed that you'd give it all away
Goodbye,
Goodbye paradise
The sea,
The majestic sea,
Breaks everything,
Crushes everything,
Cleans everything,
Takes everything
From me
02 July 2010
The House Was Quiet And The World Was Calm ...
by Wallace Stevens sums up the beauty of summer night, reading and perfect harmany ...
The house was quiet and the world was calm.
The reader became the book; and summer night
Was like the conscious being of the book.
The house was quiet and the world was calm.
The words were spoken as if there was no book,
Except that the reader leaned above the page,
Wanted to lean, wanted much to be
The scholar to whom his book is true, to whom
The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
The house was quiet because it had to be.
The quiet was part of the meaning, part of the mind:
The access of perfection to the page.
And the world was calm. The truth in a calm world,
In which there is no other meaning, itself
Is calm, itself is summer and night, itself
Is the reader leaning late and reading there.
The house was quiet and the world was calm.
The reader became the book; and summer night
Was like the conscious being of the book.
The house was quiet and the world was calm.
The words were spoken as if there was no book,
Except that the reader leaned above the page,
Wanted to lean, wanted much to be
The scholar to whom his book is true, to whom
The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
The house was quiet because it had to be.
The quiet was part of the meaning, part of the mind:
The access of perfection to the page.
And the world was calm. The truth in a calm world,
In which there is no other meaning, itself
Is calm, itself is summer and night, itself
Is the reader leaning late and reading there.
28 June 2010
Bob Kaufman ...
... embodies the spirit of San Francisco for me ... He took a Buddhist vow of silence in 1963 after learning of the assassination of John F. Kennedy. The silence was broken on the day the Vietnam War ended, in 1973, as he walked into a coffee shop and recited the poem below ...
All those ships that never sailed
The ones with their seacocks open
That were scuttled in their stalls…
Today I bring them back
Huge and intransitory
And let them sail
Forever.
All those flowers that you never grew-
that you wanted to grow
The ones that were plowed under
ground in the mud-
Today I bring them back
And let you grow them
Forever.
All those wars and truces
Dancing down these years-
All in three flag swept days
Rejected meaning of God-
My body once covered with beauty
Is now a museum of betrayal.
This part remembered because of that one's touch
This part remembered for that one's kiss-
Today I bring it back
And let you live forever.
I breath a breathless I love you
And move you
Forever.
Remove the snake from Moses' arm...
And someday the Jewish queen will dance
Down the street with the dogs
And make every Jew
Her lover.
All those ships that never sailed
The ones with their seacocks open
That were scuttled in their stalls…
Today I bring them back
Huge and intransitory
And let them sail
Forever.
All those flowers that you never grew-
that you wanted to grow
The ones that were plowed under
ground in the mud-
Today I bring them back
And let you grow them
Forever.
All those wars and truces
Dancing down these years-
All in three flag swept days
Rejected meaning of God-
My body once covered with beauty
Is now a museum of betrayal.
This part remembered because of that one's touch
This part remembered for that one's kiss-
Today I bring it back
And let you live forever.
I breath a breathless I love you
And move you
Forever.
Remove the snake from Moses' arm...
And someday the Jewish queen will dance
Down the street with the dogs
And make every Jew
Her lover.
19 June 2010
Rabbit, run ...
... by John Updike ... describes the journey of a young man lost in 50s America and his own needs ...
"Afraid, really afraid, he remembers what once consoled him by seeming to make a hole where he looked through into underlying brightness, and lifts his eyes to the church window. It is, because of church poverty or the late summer nights or just carelessness, unlit, a dark circle in a limestone facade.
There is light, though, in the streetlights; muffled by trees their mingling cones retreat to the unseen end of Summer Street. Nearby, to his left, directly under one, the rough asphalt looks like dimpled snow. He decides to walk around the block, to clear his head and pick his path. Funny, how what makes you moves so simple and the field you must move in is so crowded. His legs take strength from the distinction, scissor among evenly. Goodness lies inside, there is nothing outside, those things he was trying to balance have no weight. He feels his inside as very real suddenly, a pure blank space in the middle of a dense net. I don't know, he kept telling Ruth; he doesn't know, what to do, where to go, what will happen, the thought that he doesn't know seems to make him infinitely small and impossible to capture. Its smallness fills him like a vastness. It's like when they heard you were great and put two men on you and no matter which way you turned you bumped into one of them and the only thing to do was pass. So you passed and the ball belonged to the others and your hands were empty and the men on you looked foolish because in effect there was nobody there.
Rabbit comes to the curb but instead of going to his right and around the block he steps down, with as big a feeling as if this little sidestreet is a wide river, and crosses. He wants to travel to the next patch of snow. Although this block of brick three-stories is just like the one he left, something in it makes him happy; the steps and windowsills seem to twitch and shift in the corner of his eye, alive. This illusion trips him. His hands lift of their own and he feels the wind on his ears even before, his heels hitting heavily on the pavement at first but with an effortless gathering out of a kind of sweet panic growing lighter and quicker and quieter, he runs. Ah: runs. Runs.'
"Afraid, really afraid, he remembers what once consoled him by seeming to make a hole where he looked through into underlying brightness, and lifts his eyes to the church window. It is, because of church poverty or the late summer nights or just carelessness, unlit, a dark circle in a limestone facade.
There is light, though, in the streetlights; muffled by trees their mingling cones retreat to the unseen end of Summer Street. Nearby, to his left, directly under one, the rough asphalt looks like dimpled snow. He decides to walk around the block, to clear his head and pick his path. Funny, how what makes you moves so simple and the field you must move in is so crowded. His legs take strength from the distinction, scissor among evenly. Goodness lies inside, there is nothing outside, those things he was trying to balance have no weight. He feels his inside as very real suddenly, a pure blank space in the middle of a dense net. I don't know, he kept telling Ruth; he doesn't know, what to do, where to go, what will happen, the thought that he doesn't know seems to make him infinitely small and impossible to capture. Its smallness fills him like a vastness. It's like when they heard you were great and put two men on you and no matter which way you turned you bumped into one of them and the only thing to do was pass. So you passed and the ball belonged to the others and your hands were empty and the men on you looked foolish because in effect there was nobody there.
Rabbit comes to the curb but instead of going to his right and around the block he steps down, with as big a feeling as if this little sidestreet is a wide river, and crosses. He wants to travel to the next patch of snow. Although this block of brick three-stories is just like the one he left, something in it makes him happy; the steps and windowsills seem to twitch and shift in the corner of his eye, alive. This illusion trips him. His hands lift of their own and he feels the wind on his ears even before, his heels hitting heavily on the pavement at first but with an effortless gathering out of a kind of sweet panic growing lighter and quicker and quieter, he runs. Ah: runs. Runs.'
08 June 2010
Butterfly ...
... by Weezer with Allison Allport on the harps, is just a beautiful song, and has accompanied many hours of my revision for MRCPscyh this week ..
Yesterday I went outside
With my mama's mason jar,
Caught a lovely butterfly
When I woke up today
Looked in on my fairy pet
She had withered all away
No more sighing in the breast
I'm sorry for what I did
I did what my body told me to
I didn't mean to do you harm
Everytime I pin down what I think I want it slips away
The goal slips away
Smell you on my hands for days
I can't wash away your scent
If I'm a dog then you're a bitch [pause]
I guess you're as real as me
Maybe I can live with that
Maybe I need fantasy
Life of chasing butterfly
I'm sorry for what I did
I did what my body told me to
I didn't mean to do you harm
Everytime I pin down what I think I want it slips away
The goal slips away
I told you I would return
When the robin makes his nest
But I ain't never coming back
I'm sorry
I'm sorry
I'm sorry
Yesterday I went outside
With my mama's mason jar,
Caught a lovely butterfly
When I woke up today
Looked in on my fairy pet
She had withered all away
No more sighing in the breast
I'm sorry for what I did
I did what my body told me to
I didn't mean to do you harm
Everytime I pin down what I think I want it slips away
The goal slips away
Smell you on my hands for days
I can't wash away your scent
If I'm a dog then you're a bitch [pause]
I guess you're as real as me
Maybe I can live with that
Maybe I need fantasy
Life of chasing butterfly
I'm sorry for what I did
I did what my body told me to
I didn't mean to do you harm
Everytime I pin down what I think I want it slips away
The goal slips away
I told you I would return
When the robin makes his nest
But I ain't never coming back
I'm sorry
I'm sorry
I'm sorry
03 June 2010
Sunflower ...
... is the title of a book by Gyula Krudy ... and its ending is a beautiful little exchange between Eveline and Almos-Dreamer ...
"And what about me, couldn't I understand you?"
"Let's wait for winter. The first, the second, the third winter ... Let's wait for the monotonous evenings of this place, the courses of the moon, the howling-wolf nights. We'll just have to make sure to wind the clocks each day, bury our memories, sit in tranquillity by the warm fireside, play enough tric-trac, and never, never write letters without each others' knowledge, no matter how overcast the twilight."
"I'll be waiting for you."
"Let crazy life rush headlong on the highway for others; we shall contemplate the sunflowers, watch them sprout, blossom, fade away. Yesterday, they were still giants, but now, in autumn, they are thatch on the roof."
"And what about me, couldn't I understand you?"
"Let's wait for winter. The first, the second, the third winter ... Let's wait for the monotonous evenings of this place, the courses of the moon, the howling-wolf nights. We'll just have to make sure to wind the clocks each day, bury our memories, sit in tranquillity by the warm fireside, play enough tric-trac, and never, never write letters without each others' knowledge, no matter how overcast the twilight."
"I'll be waiting for you."
"Let crazy life rush headlong on the highway for others; we shall contemplate the sunflowers, watch them sprout, blossom, fade away. Yesterday, they were still giants, but now, in autumn, they are thatch on the roof."
25 May 2010
From an Atlas of the difficult world ...
... by Adrienne Rich reminds a little of Calvino's "If on a winter's night a traveller" in terms of styles and the range of possibilities it creates, even in a difficult world ...
I know you are reading this poem
late, before leaving your office
of the one intense yellow lamp-spot and the darkening window
in the lassitude of a building faded to quiet
long after rush-hour. I know you are reading this poem
standing up in a bookstore far from the ocean
on a grey day of early spring, faint flakes driven
across the plains' enormous spaces around you.
I know you are reading this poem
in a room where too much has happened for you to bear
where the bedclothes lie in stagnant coils on the bed
and the open valise speaks of flight
but you cannot leave yet. I know you are reading this poem
as the underground train loses momentum and before running
up the stairs
toward a new kind of love
your life has never allowed.
I know you are reading this poem by the light
of the television screen where soundless images jerk and slide
while you wait for the newscast from the intifada.
I know you are reading this poem in a waiting-room
of eyes met and unmeeting, of identity with strangers.
I know you are reading this poem by fluorescent light
in the boredom and fatigue of the young who are counted out,
count themselves out, at too early an age. I know
you are reading this poem through your failing sight, the thick
lens enlarging these letters beyond all meaning yet you read on
because even the alphabet is precious.
I know you are reading this poem as you pace beside the stove
warming milk, a crying child on your shoulder, a book in your
hand
because life is short and you too are thirsty.
I know you are reading this poem which is not in your language
guessing at some words while others keep you reading
and I want to know which words they are.
I know you are reading this poem listening for something, torn
between bitterness and hope
turning back once again to the task you cannot refuse.
I know you are reading this poem because there is nothing else
left to read
there where you have landed, stripped as you are.
I know you are reading this poem
late, before leaving your office
of the one intense yellow lamp-spot and the darkening window
in the lassitude of a building faded to quiet
long after rush-hour. I know you are reading this poem
standing up in a bookstore far from the ocean
on a grey day of early spring, faint flakes driven
across the plains' enormous spaces around you.
I know you are reading this poem
in a room where too much has happened for you to bear
where the bedclothes lie in stagnant coils on the bed
and the open valise speaks of flight
but you cannot leave yet. I know you are reading this poem
as the underground train loses momentum and before running
up the stairs
toward a new kind of love
your life has never allowed.
I know you are reading this poem by the light
of the television screen where soundless images jerk and slide
while you wait for the newscast from the intifada.
I know you are reading this poem in a waiting-room
of eyes met and unmeeting, of identity with strangers.
I know you are reading this poem by fluorescent light
in the boredom and fatigue of the young who are counted out,
count themselves out, at too early an age. I know
you are reading this poem through your failing sight, the thick
lens enlarging these letters beyond all meaning yet you read on
because even the alphabet is precious.
I know you are reading this poem as you pace beside the stove
warming milk, a crying child on your shoulder, a book in your
hand
because life is short and you too are thirsty.
I know you are reading this poem which is not in your language
guessing at some words while others keep you reading
and I want to know which words they are.
I know you are reading this poem listening for something, torn
between bitterness and hope
turning back once again to the task you cannot refuse.
I know you are reading this poem because there is nothing else
left to read
there where you have landed, stripped as you are.
22 May 2010
Suffering ...
... is a question which I am not even closed to start contemplating about it ... this page is the beginning of a series of thoughts which I have come across in my search for a greater understanding ...
May 2010
Paul Tournier - The person matures, develops, becomes more creative, not because of the deprivation in itself, but through his own active response to misfortune, through the struggle to come to terms with it, and morally to overcome it, even if in spite of everything there is no cure ...
Simone Weil - The extreme greatness of Christianity lies in the fact that it does not seek a supernatural remedy for suffering, but a supernatural use for it.
Oswald Chambers - A man up against things feels that he has lost God, while in reality, he has come face to face with Him.
June 2010
Shadowlands -
C.S. Lewis (Jack): Why love, if losing hurts so much? I have no answers anymore: only the life I have lived. Twice in that life I've been given the choice: as a boy and as a man. The boy chose safety, the man chooses suffering. The pain now is part of the happiness then. That's the deal.
C. S. Lewis: Pain is God's megaphone to rouse a deaf world.
July 2010
Hudson Taylor
From my inmost soul I delight in the knowledge that God does or deliberately permits all things, and causes all things to work together for good to those who love Him. He, and he only, knew what my dear wife was to me. He know how the light of my eyes and the joy of my heart were in her ... But he saw that it was good to take her; good indeed for her, and in his love he took her painlessly; and not less good for me who must henceforth toil and suffer alone - yet not alone, for God is nearer to me than ever".
May 2010
Paul Tournier - The person matures, develops, becomes more creative, not because of the deprivation in itself, but through his own active response to misfortune, through the struggle to come to terms with it, and morally to overcome it, even if in spite of everything there is no cure ...
Simone Weil - The extreme greatness of Christianity lies in the fact that it does not seek a supernatural remedy for suffering, but a supernatural use for it.
Oswald Chambers - A man up against things feels that he has lost God, while in reality, he has come face to face with Him.
June 2010
Shadowlands -
C.S. Lewis (Jack): Why love, if losing hurts so much? I have no answers anymore: only the life I have lived. Twice in that life I've been given the choice: as a boy and as a man. The boy chose safety, the man chooses suffering. The pain now is part of the happiness then. That's the deal.
C. S. Lewis: Pain is God's megaphone to rouse a deaf world.
July 2010
Hudson Taylor
From my inmost soul I delight in the knowledge that God does or deliberately permits all things, and causes all things to work together for good to those who love Him. He, and he only, knew what my dear wife was to me. He know how the light of my eyes and the joy of my heart were in her ... But he saw that it was good to take her; good indeed for her, and in his love he took her painlessly; and not less good for me who must henceforth toil and suffer alone - yet not alone, for God is nearer to me than ever".
08 May 2010
A letter to ...
... a long lost love was published in The Guardian yesterday ... It may not be the most beautiful letter ever written but its sentiments feel so true ... As for the last paragraph, it does make you wonder ...
"A letter to … a long-lost love" from The Guardian's "The letter you always wanted to write" ~ Sat 8 May
Our Uncle Simon died in April, a bachelor and a very solitary man with a very dry and quick wit. Among his personal effects we discovered this letter, which would have been written in 1947/48, when he was at Liverpool University. Ruth, the recipient of the letter, was a dental student. These letters were a revelation to the family as Simon had never indicated that there was a significant relationship in his life; even his six brothers were unaware of any romantic involvements. He would have been 26 at the time of writing and we wonder if rejection by Ruth prevented him from making any commitment for the rest of his life. A significant factor, and one alluded to in the letter, is that as the son of Orthodox Jews, a relationship with a non-Jew would have caused Simon much soul-searching.
~ Jennifer and Mavis Henley
Last year I was in no position to decide my future. But now I am able to make plans. I have always intended to leave Liverpool and take a job somewhere south. I believe I shall be happier there, somehow, and free from interference.
There is something I can do, which will solve our problem. I have been thinking over it for some time. It will be easy. But I am not able to describe it to you in a letter. It needs to be discussed in conversation.
I ought to say that I fell in love with you the first moment I saw you, when I felt I wanted to marry you; although I did not realise it at the time. If I afterwards had doubts it was because I was not my own master. But I soon will be. When my father died I went off the deep end with grief. Yet a thing like that may happen to anybody. The emotion that such trouble causes is only temporary, after all. You seem to have felt, however, that I had averted myself from you for always. But it was not so. The pain I caused you was no less than the suffering I inflicted upon myself. Parting from you was like cutting off my right hand.
There is nothing in the world that I would not do in order to show my love for you. Nothing. You are part of my life, friend in mind as the ideal of the good and the beautiful. I believe that we are meant and made for one another, that we belong together. I am willing to go to any lengths … in order to ensure your happiness. I will marry you, if you will have me, no matter what the risks may be and no matter what the consequences. The risks I am sure are negligible and the consequences will be wholly good. And just because we are conscious of the possible snags, we shall succeed. If only because we appreciate one another's outlook we shall achieve tolerance and mutual understanding and attain to that satisfaction and joyful peace, which result from a sound marriage. The attainment of all this depends, as I said, upon the idea mentioned above. I hope to discuss it with you.
I love you so much that I cannot bear to be parted from you and every minute of separation is torment to me. I feel that I cannot live without you. Everything I do is done or said with reference to you. You may be astonished to learn that consciously or unconsciously I have always thought of you as my wife.
So, when I thought I had lost you for ever the agony I felt was terrible. It was like being bereaved. But because I had thought, or rather hoped that you understood, the misunderstanding grew deeper, to our mutual hurt. What has happened in the last few weeks is of no importance in my eyes. I am in any case almost wholly to blame for it.
I am deadly serious, my darling. Here it is in black and white, a proposal of marriage made with no reservations but with all the earnestness of which a man is capable, for all the world to see. It does not matter who knows.
I love you, my sweet, precious darling. I will do all I can to make you happy. I will work my hardest. I will stand by you until death.
There are many religions but only one God. I believe he will look upon us two with kindly indifference. I am not sure about that. But I am sure about you.
"A letter to … a long-lost love" from The Guardian's "The letter you always wanted to write" ~ Sat 8 May
Our Uncle Simon died in April, a bachelor and a very solitary man with a very dry and quick wit. Among his personal effects we discovered this letter, which would have been written in 1947/48, when he was at Liverpool University. Ruth, the recipient of the letter, was a dental student. These letters were a revelation to the family as Simon had never indicated that there was a significant relationship in his life; even his six brothers were unaware of any romantic involvements. He would have been 26 at the time of writing and we wonder if rejection by Ruth prevented him from making any commitment for the rest of his life. A significant factor, and one alluded to in the letter, is that as the son of Orthodox Jews, a relationship with a non-Jew would have caused Simon much soul-searching.
~ Jennifer and Mavis Henley
Last year I was in no position to decide my future. But now I am able to make plans. I have always intended to leave Liverpool and take a job somewhere south. I believe I shall be happier there, somehow, and free from interference.
There is something I can do, which will solve our problem. I have been thinking over it for some time. It will be easy. But I am not able to describe it to you in a letter. It needs to be discussed in conversation.
I ought to say that I fell in love with you the first moment I saw you, when I felt I wanted to marry you; although I did not realise it at the time. If I afterwards had doubts it was because I was not my own master. But I soon will be. When my father died I went off the deep end with grief. Yet a thing like that may happen to anybody. The emotion that such trouble causes is only temporary, after all. You seem to have felt, however, that I had averted myself from you for always. But it was not so. The pain I caused you was no less than the suffering I inflicted upon myself. Parting from you was like cutting off my right hand.
There is nothing in the world that I would not do in order to show my love for you. Nothing. You are part of my life, friend in mind as the ideal of the good and the beautiful. I believe that we are meant and made for one another, that we belong together. I am willing to go to any lengths … in order to ensure your happiness. I will marry you, if you will have me, no matter what the risks may be and no matter what the consequences. The risks I am sure are negligible and the consequences will be wholly good. And just because we are conscious of the possible snags, we shall succeed. If only because we appreciate one another's outlook we shall achieve tolerance and mutual understanding and attain to that satisfaction and joyful peace, which result from a sound marriage. The attainment of all this depends, as I said, upon the idea mentioned above. I hope to discuss it with you.
I love you so much that I cannot bear to be parted from you and every minute of separation is torment to me. I feel that I cannot live without you. Everything I do is done or said with reference to you. You may be astonished to learn that consciously or unconsciously I have always thought of you as my wife.
So, when I thought I had lost you for ever the agony I felt was terrible. It was like being bereaved. But because I had thought, or rather hoped that you understood, the misunderstanding grew deeper, to our mutual hurt. What has happened in the last few weeks is of no importance in my eyes. I am in any case almost wholly to blame for it.
I am deadly serious, my darling. Here it is in black and white, a proposal of marriage made with no reservations but with all the earnestness of which a man is capable, for all the world to see. It does not matter who knows.
I love you, my sweet, precious darling. I will do all I can to make you happy. I will work my hardest. I will stand by you until death.
There are many religions but only one God. I believe he will look upon us two with kindly indifference. I am not sure about that. But I am sure about you.
14 April 2010
You could be happy ...
... is a song by Snow Patrol, introduced to me by someone who is pretty amazing and probably one of my favourite people on earth ... The sentiment expressed is painful but beautiful ... Sometimes, we do view past relationships through rose-tinted glasses, but the purified memories may just make the world a little more bearable ...
You could be happy and I won't know
But you weren't happy the day I watched you go
And all the things that I wished I had not said
Are played on loops 'till it's madness in my head
Is it too late to remind you how we were
But not our last days of silence, screaming, blur
Most of what I remember makes me sure
I should have stopped you from walking out the door
You could be happy, I hope you are
You made me happier than I'd been by far
Somehow everything I own smells of you
And for the tiniest moment it's all not true
Do the things that you always wanted to
Without me there to hold you back, don't think, just do
More than anything I want to see you go
Take a glorious bite out of the whole world
You could be happy and I won't know
But you weren't happy the day I watched you go
And all the things that I wished I had not said
Are played on loops 'till it's madness in my head
Is it too late to remind you how we were
But not our last days of silence, screaming, blur
Most of what I remember makes me sure
I should have stopped you from walking out the door
You could be happy, I hope you are
You made me happier than I'd been by far
Somehow everything I own smells of you
And for the tiniest moment it's all not true
Do the things that you always wanted to
Without me there to hold you back, don't think, just do
More than anything I want to see you go
Take a glorious bite out of the whole world
04 April 2010
Why Lord?
Why Lord is there no-one?
No-one who cares.
The emptiness and bitterness
grow with passing years.
Why Lord can't I love?
Just anyone will do.
Someone who thinks I'm special.
Not only you.
Why Lord is there nothing?
Nothing to call mine.
Why Lord is there nowhere?
Nowhere to go.
Why Lord don't they want me?
Not even one.
Why Lord do they leave me?
Ever alone.
Will you go too, Lord?
Or were you ever there?
Created of necessity
to be someone to care.
... by Elizabeth Stewart is a poem about the darkness in our lives, when God is Deus absconditus, hidden from our searches ... Today, however, answers the last question asked ... Happy Easter ...
No-one who cares.
The emptiness and bitterness
grow with passing years.
Why Lord can't I love?
Just anyone will do.
Someone who thinks I'm special.
Not only you.
Why Lord is there nothing?
Nothing to call mine.
Why Lord is there nowhere?
Nowhere to go.
Why Lord don't they want me?
Not even one.
Why Lord do they leave me?
Ever alone.
Will you go too, Lord?
Or were you ever there?
Created of necessity
to be someone to care.
... by Elizabeth Stewart is a poem about the darkness in our lives, when God is Deus absconditus, hidden from our searches ... Today, however, answers the last question asked ... Happy Easter ...
21 March 2010
Smilin' through ...
... is a song which the singer Patricia Hammond sings when she visits a retirement home .... and despite 90% of its residents being widows, their favourite part is the last verse ...
"And if ever I'm left in this world all alone,
I shall wait for my call patiently,
If the heavens be kind
I shall wake there to find
Those two eyes of blue
Still smilin' through
At me".
"And if ever I'm left in this world all alone,
I shall wait for my call patiently,
If the heavens be kind
I shall wake there to find
Those two eyes of blue
Still smilin' through
At me".
04 March 2010
We are nowhere and it's now ...
... is a song by Bright Eyes. It resonates so much with the world which surrounds me, as each of us tries to find the long lost "yellow bird", while holding onto the "silver wreath", hoping that it will lead us somewhere ... We are made of conflicting contradictions, and maybe we all have to answer the questions - "And if you swear that there's no truth and who cares / how come you say it like you are right? / Why are you scared to dream of God / when it's salvation that you want?"
If you hate the taste of wine
Why do you drink it till you're blind?
And if you swear that there's no truth and who cares
How come you say it like you're right?
Why are you scared to dream of God
When it's salvation that you want?
You see stars that clear have been dead for years
But the idea just lives on...
In our wheels that roll around
As we move over the ground
And all day it seems we've been in between
A past and future town
We are nowhere and it's now
We are nowhere and it's now
And like a ten minute dream in the passenger's seat
While the world was flying by
I haven't been gone very long
But it feels like a lifetime
I've been sleeping so strange at night
Side effects they don't advertise
I've been sleeping so strange
With a head full of pesticide
I've got no plans and too much time
I feel too restless to unwind
I'm always lost in thought as I walk a block
To my favorite neon sign
Where the waitress looks concerned
But she never says a word
Just turns the jukebox on and we hum along
And I smile back at her
And my friend comes after work
When the features start to blur
She says these bars are filled with things that kill
By now you probably should have learned
Did you forget that yellow bird?
But how could you forget your yellow bird?
She took a small silver wreath and pinned it onto me
She said this one will bring you love
And I don't know if it's true
But I keep it for good luck
If you hate the taste of wine
Why do you drink it till you're blind?
And if you swear that there's no truth and who cares
How come you say it like you're right?
Why are you scared to dream of God
When it's salvation that you want?
You see stars that clear have been dead for years
But the idea just lives on...
In our wheels that roll around
As we move over the ground
And all day it seems we've been in between
A past and future town
We are nowhere and it's now
We are nowhere and it's now
And like a ten minute dream in the passenger's seat
While the world was flying by
I haven't been gone very long
But it feels like a lifetime
I've been sleeping so strange at night
Side effects they don't advertise
I've been sleeping so strange
With a head full of pesticide
I've got no plans and too much time
I feel too restless to unwind
I'm always lost in thought as I walk a block
To my favorite neon sign
Where the waitress looks concerned
But she never says a word
Just turns the jukebox on and we hum along
And I smile back at her
And my friend comes after work
When the features start to blur
She says these bars are filled with things that kill
By now you probably should have learned
Did you forget that yellow bird?
But how could you forget your yellow bird?
She took a small silver wreath and pinned it onto me
She said this one will bring you love
And I don't know if it's true
But I keep it for good luck
28 February 2010
If on a winter's night a traveller ...
... by Calvino is a book written for anyone who loves reading, writing or has ever fallen under the spell of the written words ...
"Every new book I read comes to be a part of that overall and unitary book that is the sum of my readings. This does not come about without some effort: to compose that general book, each individual book must be transformed, enter into a relationship with the books I have read previously, become their corollary or development or confutation or gloss or reference text".
"Every new book I read comes to be a part of that overall and unitary book that is the sum of my readings. This does not come about without some effort: to compose that general book, each individual book must be transformed, enter into a relationship with the books I have read previously, become their corollary or development or confutation or gloss or reference text".
24 February 2010
John Newton ...
... said the following at the furnael of his friend William Cowper who had depression ...
He drank tea with me in the afternoon. The next morning a violent storm overtook him ,,. I used to visit him often but no argument could prevail with him to come and see me. He used to point with his finger to the church and say: "You know the comfort I have had there and how I have seen the glory of the Lord in His house, and until I go there I'll not go anywhere else." He was one of those who came out of great tribulations. He suffered much here for twenty-seven years, but eternity is long enough to make amends for all. For what is all he endured in this life, when compared with thr rest which remaineth for the children of God."
... And wrote the following while he watched the dawn outside his window ...
The day is now breaking: how beautiful its appearance! How welcome the expression of the approaching sun! It is this thought makes the dawn agreeable, that it is the presage of a brighter light; otherwise, if we expect no more day than it is this minute, we should rather complain of darkness, than rejoice in the early beauties of the morning. Thus the Life of grace is the dawn of immortality: beautiful beyond expression, if compared with the night and thick darkness which formerly covered us; yet faint, indistinct, and unsatisfying, in comparison of the glory which shall be revealed.
Trust in a future which is yet to be fully revealed, while appreciating the beauty and wonders which this world has to offer now ...
He drank tea with me in the afternoon. The next morning a violent storm overtook him ,,. I used to visit him often but no argument could prevail with him to come and see me. He used to point with his finger to the church and say: "You know the comfort I have had there and how I have seen the glory of the Lord in His house, and until I go there I'll not go anywhere else." He was one of those who came out of great tribulations. He suffered much here for twenty-seven years, but eternity is long enough to make amends for all. For what is all he endured in this life, when compared with thr rest which remaineth for the children of God."
... And wrote the following while he watched the dawn outside his window ...
The day is now breaking: how beautiful its appearance! How welcome the expression of the approaching sun! It is this thought makes the dawn agreeable, that it is the presage of a brighter light; otherwise, if we expect no more day than it is this minute, we should rather complain of darkness, than rejoice in the early beauties of the morning. Thus the Life of grace is the dawn of immortality: beautiful beyond expression, if compared with the night and thick darkness which formerly covered us; yet faint, indistinct, and unsatisfying, in comparison of the glory which shall be revealed.
Trust in a future which is yet to be fully revealed, while appreciating the beauty and wonders which this world has to offer now ...
15 February 2010
Che Fece ... Il Gran Rifiuto
... by Constantine P Cavafy ... is a little poem from the past for one to ponder ...
For some people the day comes
when they have to declare the great Yes
or the great No. It's clear at once who has the Yes
ready within him; and saying it,
he goes from honor to honor, strong in his conviction.
He who refuses does not repent. Asked again,
he'd still say no. Yet that no-the right no-
drags him down all his life.
For some people the day comes
when they have to declare the great Yes
or the great No. It's clear at once who has the Yes
ready within him; and saying it,
he goes from honor to honor, strong in his conviction.
He who refuses does not repent. Asked again,
he'd still say no. Yet that no-the right no-
drags him down all his life.
14 February 2010
The best times of the day ...
... by Raymond Carver is beautifully simple, and warms one's heart on this cold cold Valentine's night ...
Cool summer nights.
Windows open.
Lamps burning.
Fruit in the bowl.
And your head on my shoulder.
These the happiest moments in the day.
Next to the early morning hours,
of course. And the time
just before lunch.
And the afternoon, and
early evening hours.
But I do love
these summer nights.
Even more, I think,
than those other times.
The work finished for the day.
And no one who can reach us now.
Or ever.
Cool summer nights.
Windows open.
Lamps burning.
Fruit in the bowl.
And your head on my shoulder.
These the happiest moments in the day.
Next to the early morning hours,
of course. And the time
just before lunch.
And the afternoon, and
early evening hours.
But I do love
these summer nights.
Even more, I think,
than those other times.
The work finished for the day.
And no one who can reach us now.
Or ever.
08 February 2010
The late Mattia Pascal ...
... is an interesting little book by Luigi Pirandello ... I cannot make my mind up about it, but I do like this little passage.
"Every object is transformed within us according to the images it evokes, the sensations that cluster around it. To be sure, an object may please us for itself alone, for the pleasant feelings that a harmonious sight inspires in us; but far more often the pleasure that an object affords us does not derive from the object in itself. Our fantasy embellishes it, surrounding it, making it resplendent with images dear to us. Then we no longer see it for what it is, but animated by the images it arouses in us or by the things we associate with it. In short, what we love about the object is what we put in it of ourselves, the harmony established between it and us, the soul that it acquires only through us, a soul composed of our memories".
This concept can also apply to people and our relationship with them ... Sometimes, we do need some space and distance for clarity, and it reminds me a little of the "object-relation" idea ...
"Every object is transformed within us according to the images it evokes, the sensations that cluster around it. To be sure, an object may please us for itself alone, for the pleasant feelings that a harmonious sight inspires in us; but far more often the pleasure that an object affords us does not derive from the object in itself. Our fantasy embellishes it, surrounding it, making it resplendent with images dear to us. Then we no longer see it for what it is, but animated by the images it arouses in us or by the things we associate with it. In short, what we love about the object is what we put in it of ourselves, the harmony established between it and us, the soul that it acquires only through us, a soul composed of our memories".
This concept can also apply to people and our relationship with them ... Sometimes, we do need some space and distance for clarity, and it reminds me a little of the "object-relation" idea ...
28 January 2010
Peaceful the World lays me down ...
... is a song by Noah and the Whale ... it has taken me a long long time to pick up the pieces, to be able to breath fully, to find joy in little things again; be it a sunset, complicated writings, laughter with friends, letters from aboard, cakes with ten millions layers of chocolates, discovering long forgotten music, having meandering conversations, wandering under the Blue Lights ...
Oh, well it's hard to look deep into your soul.
Not everything you'll find will be perfect gold.
There are ghosts and demons that hide in the dark.
Oh, they wait till you find them and then they laugh.
Oh, they know that my body is no way good enough.
Know that my heart is no way strong enough
to bear the sorrows that love brings.
When I recoil in fear, oh, the demons shake.
But it's a hollow love for a heart with no blood in its veins.
Oh, there is no endless devotion,
that is free from the force of erosion.
Oh, if you don't believe in God,
how can you believe in love?
When we're all just matter that will one day scatter,
when peaceful the world lays us down.
Oh and finding love is a matter of luck,
and unettled lovers move from f*** to f***
Oh, and compare their achievements like discussing bereavements
And compare their abrasions with romantic quotations,
Oh, as peaceful, the world watches down.
But oh we were blown out of the water.
Oh, and we walk on the feet we have grown.
Oh, and we were given a heart, of which love is a part.
Oh, and we cornered the thing from which all life will spring.
And it gave value to the world that surrounds us.
But we consider the world just for a moment.
Oh, and it's gone before we even know.
Oh, but I'll follow it round yeah I'll follow it round.
Oh, I'll follow it round yeah I'll follow it round.
Till peaceful, the world lays me down.
Oh, well it's hard to look deep into your soul.
Not everything you'll find will be perfect gold.
There are ghosts and demons that hide in the dark.
Oh, they wait till you find them and then they laugh.
Oh, they know that my body is no way good enough.
Know that my heart is no way strong enough
to bear the sorrows that love brings.
When I recoil in fear, oh, the demons shake.
But it's a hollow love for a heart with no blood in its veins.
Oh, there is no endless devotion,
that is free from the force of erosion.
Oh, if you don't believe in God,
how can you believe in love?
When we're all just matter that will one day scatter,
when peaceful the world lays us down.
Oh and finding love is a matter of luck,
and unettled lovers move from f*** to f***
Oh, and compare their achievements like discussing bereavements
And compare their abrasions with romantic quotations,
Oh, as peaceful, the world watches down.
But oh we were blown out of the water.
Oh, and we walk on the feet we have grown.
Oh, and we were given a heart, of which love is a part.
Oh, and we cornered the thing from which all life will spring.
And it gave value to the world that surrounds us.
But we consider the world just for a moment.
Oh, and it's gone before we even know.
Oh, but I'll follow it round yeah I'll follow it round.
Oh, I'll follow it round yeah I'll follow it round.
Till peaceful, the world lays me down.
11 January 2010
She came to stay ... ...
... by Simone de Beauvoir is fictional autobiography about the complicated, painful relationships between Jean-Paul Sartre, Olga Kosakievicz and her. Despite its ending, the first few pages when she described their love is just beautiful and ultimately what one aspires to ...
"Pierre was on the stage, she was in the audience, and yet, for both of them it was the same play being performed in the same theatre. Their life was the same. They did not always see it from the same angle, for through their individual desires, moods, or pleasures, each discovered a different aspect. But it was, for all that, the same life. Neither time nor distance could divide them. There were, of course, streets, ideas, faces, that came into existence first for Pierre, and others first for Francoise; but they faithfully pieced together these scattered experiences into a single whole, in which "yours" and "mine" became indistinguishable. Neither one nor the other ever withheld the slightest fragment. That would have been the worst, the only possible betrayal".
"Pierre was on the stage, she was in the audience, and yet, for both of them it was the same play being performed in the same theatre. Their life was the same. They did not always see it from the same angle, for through their individual desires, moods, or pleasures, each discovered a different aspect. But it was, for all that, the same life. Neither time nor distance could divide them. There were, of course, streets, ideas, faces, that came into existence first for Pierre, and others first for Francoise; but they faithfully pieced together these scattered experiences into a single whole, in which "yours" and "mine" became indistinguishable. Neither one nor the other ever withheld the slightest fragment. That would have been the worst, the only possible betrayal".
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