Journals.ru » Poor Yorick » Второе внимание | |
Almost Love Compilation (?) | |
Modest Mouse - Little Motel Feist - Let it Die The National - Little Faith Broken Social Scene - Lover's Spit Radiohead James Blunt - Goodbye My Lover Coldplay - The Scientist Marron 5 - She will be Loved Cat Power - The Greatest |
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Miracles (on tiptoes) Compilation | |
Bo Moolinght - Green Waltz Sigur Ros - Se Lest |
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White Morning Compilation | |
Pornopop - It Doesn't Mean a Thing The White Birch - Star CocoRosie - Candy Land |
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Grey Smoke Compilation | |
Pornopop - Nicotine and the Backward Lounge Portishead - Mourning Air Savoy Grand - Arm the lonely Bo Moonlight - Absinth Aes Dana - In Between |
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Nature & Tears Compilation | |
Olafur Arnalds - 3326 Audrey - Northen Lights Andrei Machado - Somos poeira de estrelas Remember Remember - And the demon said Luigi Rubino - Melancholic Lisbon Worrytrain - The Trenches Choir RTQN - Le Point Culminant, Le Reveil, ... Mono - Moonlight |
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Fracture Compilation (the fracture of the day with many city-lights) | |
Balmorhea - If You Only Knew the Rain Dorena - Solen Har Furblindat Mig The Unwinding Hours - There Are Worse Things than Being Alone Destroyalldreamers - Destroy All Dreamers Logh - Forest Eyes Olafur Arnalds - Lost Song Message to bears - Hope |
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Aldous Huxley "Those barren leaves" (1925) |
..wasn't all that merely for the sake of keeping her emotions in training? Good morning, stranger. How goes your soul? And what shall we do to be saved? It was enough for me that I existed and that things were happening to me. If Etruscan didn't exist, it would be necessary to invent it If loving without being loved in return may be ranked as one of the most painful of experiences, being loved without loving is certainly one of the most boring. Perhaps no experience is better calculated to make one realize the senselessness of the passion. The spectacle of some one making a fool of himself arouses only laughter. When one is playing the fool oneself, one weeps. But when one is neither the active imbecile nor the disinterested spectator, but the unwilling cause of somebody else's folly—then it is that one comes to feel that weariness and that disgust which are the proper, the human reaction to any display of the deep animal stupidity that is the root of all evil. Perhaps if you spend long enough and your mind is the right sort of mind, perhaps you really do get, in some queer sort of way, beyond the limitations of ordinary existence. And you see that everything that seems real is in fact entirely illusory—maya, in fact, the cosmic illusion. Behind it you catch a glimpse of reality. [ литератрура ] |
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"The Magus" John Fowles |
THE PRINCE AND THE MAGICIAN Once upon a time there was a young prince, who believed in all things but three. He did not believe in princesses, he did not believe in islands, he did not believe in God. His father, the king, told him that such things did not exist. As there were no princesses or islands in his father's domains, and no sign of God, the young prince believed his father. But then, one day, the prince ran away from his palace. He came to the next land. There, to his astonishment, from every coast he saw islands, and on these islands, strange and troubling creatures whom he dared not name. As he was searching for a boat, a man in full evening dress approached him along the shore. "Are those real islands?" asked the young prince. "Of course they are real islands," said the man in evening dress. "And those strange and troubling creatures?" "They are all genuine and authentic princesses." "Then God also must exist!" cried the prince. "I am God," replied the man in full evening dress, with a bow. The young prince returned home as quickly as he could. "So you are back," said his father, the king. "I have seen islands, I have seen princesses, I have seen God," said the prince reproachfully. The king was unmoved. "Neither real islands, nor neat princesses, nor a real God, exist." "I saw them!" "Tell me how God was dressed." "God was in full evening dress." "Were the sleeves of his coat rolled back?" The prince remembered that they had been. The king smiled. "That is the uniform of a magician. You have been deceived." At this, the prince returned to the next land, and went to the same shore, where once again he came upon the man in full evening dress. "My father the king has told me who you are," said the young prince indignantly. "You deceived me last time, but not again. Now I know that those are not real islands and real princesses, because you are a magician." The man on the shore smiled. "It is you who are deceived, my boy. In your father's kingdom there are many islands and many princesses. But you are under your father's spell, so you cannot see them." The prince returned pensively home. When he saw his father, he looked him in the eyes. "Father, is it true that you are not a real king, but only a magician?" The king smiled, and rolled back his sleeves. "Yes, my son, I am only a magician." "Then the man on the shore was God." "The man on the shore was another magician." "I must know the real truth, the truth beyond magic." "There is no truth beyond magic," said the king. The prince was full of sadness. He said, "I will kill myself." The king by magic caused death to appear. Death stood in the door and beckoned to the prince. The prince shuddered. He remembered the beautiful but unreal islands and the unreal but beautiful princesses. "Very well," he said. "I can bear it." "You see, my son," said the king, "you too now begin to be a magician." [ литератрура ] |
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Irvin Yalom "Existential Psychology" |
No matter how close each of us becomes to another, there remains a final, unbridgeable gap; each of us enters existence alone and must depart from it alone. The existential conflict is thus the tension between our awareness of our absolute isolation and our wish for contact, for protection, our wish to be part of a larger whole. | |
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Devics- come up |
You know all the words, so why should I hide it | |
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Godspeed You! Black Emperor - The Dead Flag Blues |
I said: "Kiss me, you're beautiful These are really the last days.." |
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Regina Spektor - On the Radio |
You take the things you like And try to love the things you took |
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На десять минут старше: Виолончель (2002) |
(c) The Mythology of Vishnu | |
It was as if the mountains When seen through many milleniums Would rise and fall Like waves on water. Это всё равно что Смотреть на горы много тысячелетий, Они будут вздыматься и падать, Словно воолны на воде. |
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http://img0.liveinternet.ru/images/...kaleidoskop.swf | |
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"Тот самый Мюнхаузен" (1979) |
— А разве ночь? — Ночь. — И давно? — С вечера. *** Всё в порядке, Ваше Высочество. Барон Мюнхгаузен будет арестован с минуты на минуту. Просил передать, чтоб не расходились *** — Это не мои приключения, это не моя жизнь. Она приглажена, причёсана, напудрена и кастрирована! — Обыкновенная редакторская правка. — Дорогая Якобина, ты же меня знаешь: когда меня режут, я терплю, но когда дополняют, становится нестерпимо *** Я понял, в чём ваша беда: вы слишком серьёзны. Умное лицо — это ещё не признак ума, господа. Все глупости на земле делаются именно с этим выражением лица. Вы улыбайтесь, господа. Улыбайтесь! |
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The Cruise. Timothy Levitch |
Civilization is the molestation of everything we ever could be. A giant repression melting into suppression so that you never say what you mean. Civilization is breathing down our necks, splitting us apart. We are wreckage with beating hearts. *** Ladies and Gentlemen, my name is Timothy. Montanez is downstairs. If you need advice or directions on New York City, on style, on how to appear as a debonair individual despite interior feelings of despair, let us know. Please remember that tourism is a service trade and tips are always appreciated. And we mean that. We will remember you. *** And there's so many prisoners, inmates. There's so many people to be judged. They don't even have time to consider you as a human being. You're filed through as an assembly line. And in some ways it made me think of the fact that in terms of molecular biology, we have the same infrastructure as plants. So this entire notion of individuality is a delusion anyway. It's a direful delusion. There is no real individuality except for that which we project. But sitting in the cell block I realized that the pursuit of that so-called individuality is everything I believe in. The fullest pursuit of those possibilities of that quote, unquote "Individuality," even if it is an absolute failure, is the most beautiful failure I can think of. I don't care if it's a delusion. I don't care if we have the same infrastructure as plants. I want to be the plant that grows the highest. I want to be the beanstalk. I want to be the flower that smells the most profusely, that veers most drastically towards the sunlight. *** I am Cruising currently right now. I am Cruising because I have dedicated myself to all that is creative and destructive in my life right now. And I'm equally in love with every aspect of my life, and all of the ingredients that have caused me turmoil, and all of the ingredients that have caused me glory. I am the living whispered mourning in the Roman General's ear, "Glory is fleeting." And in that verb, that active verb "fleeting," there I live. There I reside in this moment. I've dedicated myself to the idiom, "I don't know." I am in love with the frantic chaos of this limitless universe. |
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Waking Life |
The ride does not require an explanation. Just occupants. That's where you guys come in. It's like you come onto this planet with a crayon box. Now, you may get the 8-pack, you may get the 16-pack. But it's all in what you do with the crayons, the colors that you're given. And don't worry about drawing within the lines or coloring outside the lines. I say color outside the lines. You know what I mean? Color right off the page. Don't box me in. We're in motion to the ocean. We are not landlocked, I'll tell ya that. So where do you want out? *** Hell, the Greeks 3,000 years ago were just as advanced as we are |
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T.S.Eliot |
Portrait of a Lady Thou hast committed— Fornication: but that was in another country, And besides, the wench is dead. -The Jew of Malta. I Among the smoke and fog of a December afternoon You have the scene arrange itself - as it will seem to do - With "I have saved this afternoon for you"; And four wax candles in the darkened room, An atmosphere of Juliet's tomb, Prepared for all things to be said, or left unsaid. We have been, let us say, to hear the latest Pole Transmit the Preludes, through his hair and fingertips. "So intimate, this Chopin, that I think his soul Should be resurrected only among friends Some two or three, who will not touch the bloom That is rubbed and questioned in the concert room." -And so the conversation slips Among velleities and carefully caught regrets Through attenuated tones of violins Mingled with remote cornets And begins. "You do not know how much they mean to me, my friends, And how, how rare and strange it is, to find In a life composed so much, so much of odds and ends, [For indeed I do not love it... you knew? You are not blind! How keen you are!] To find a friend who has these qualities, Who has, and gives Those qualities upon which friendship lives. How much it means that I say this to you- Without these friendships - life, what cauchemar!" Among the windings of the violins And the ariettes Of cracked coronets Inside my brain a dull tom-tom begins Absurdly hammering a prelude of its own, Capricious monotone That is at least definite "false note." -Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance, Admire the monuments, Discuss the late events, Correct our watches by the public clocks. Then sit for half an hour and drink our bocks. II Now that lilacs are in bloom She has a bowl of lilacs in her room And twists one in her fingers while she talks. "Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do not know What life is, you who hold it in your hands"; (slowly twisting the lilac stalks) "You let it flow from you, you let it flow, And youth is cruel, and has no remorse And smiles at situations which it cannot see." I smile, of course, And go on drinking tea. "Yet with these April sunsets, that somehow recall My buried life, and Paris in the Spring, I feel immeasurably at peace, and find the world To be wonderful and youthful, after all." The voice returns like the insistent out-of-tune Of a broken violin on an August afternoon: "I am always sure that you understand My feelings, always sure that you feel, Sure that across the gulf you reach your hand. You are invulnerable, you have no Achilles' heel. You will go on, and when you have prevailed, You can say: at this point may a one has failed. But what have I, but what have I, my friend, To give you, what can you receive from me? Only the friendship and the sympathy Of one about to reach her journey's end. I shall sit here, serving tea to friends..." I take my hat: how can I make cowardly amends For what she has said to me? You will see me any morning in the park Reading the comics and the sporting page. Particularly I remark An English countess goes upon the stage. A Greek was murdered at a Polish dance, Another bank defaulter has confessed. I keep my countenance, I remain self-possessed Except when a street piano, mechanical and tired, Reiterates some won-out common song With the smell of hyacinths across the garden Recalling things that other people have desired. Are these ideas right or wrong? III The October night comes down; returning as before Except for a slight sensation of being ill at ease I mount the stairs and turn the handle of the door And feel as if I had mounted on my hands and knees. "And so you are going abroad; and when do you return? But that's a useless question. You hardly know when you are coming back, You will find so much to learn." My smile falls heavily among the bric-a-brac. "Perhaps you can write to me." My self-possession flares for a second; This is as I had reckoned. "I have been wondering frequently of late (But our beginnings never know our ends!) Why we have not developed into friends." I feel like one who smiles, and turning shall remark Suddenly, his expression in a glass. My self-possession gutters; we are really in the dark. "For everybody said so, all our friends, They all were sure our feelings would relate So closely! I myself can hardly understand. We must leave it now to fate. You will write, at any rate. Perhaps it is not too late. I shall sit here, serving tea to friends." And I must borrow every changing shape To find expression... dance, dance Like a dancing bear, Cry like a parrot, chatter like an ape, Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance- Well! And what if she should die some afternoon, Afternoon grey and smoky, evening yellow and rose; Should die and leave me sitting pen in hand With the smoke coming down above the housetops; Doubtful, for a while Not knowing what to feel or if I understand Or whether wise or foolish, tardy or too soon... Would she not have the advantage, after all? This music is successful with a "dying fall" Now that we talk of dying- And should I have the right to smile? The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky, Like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats, Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question... Oh, do not ask, "What is it?" Let us go and make our visit. In the room the women come and go, Talking of Michaelangelo. The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the windowpanes The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle upon the windowpanes Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house and fell asleep. And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the windowpanes; There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate; Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea. In the room the women come and go, Talking of Michaelangelo. And indeed there will be time To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?" Time to turn back and descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair-- (They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!") My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin, (They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!") Do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions that a minute will reverse. For I have known them already, known them all- Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons, I know the voices dying with a dying fall, Beneath the music from a farther room. So how should I presume? And I have known the eyes already, known them all- The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling ton he wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? And how should I presume? And I have known the arms already, known them all, Arms that are braceleted and white and bare, (But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!) Is it perfume from a dress That makes me so digress? Arms that lie around a table, or wrap about a shawl. And how should I then presume? And how should I begin? Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! Smoothed by long fingers, Asleep... tired... or it malingers, Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter, I am no prophet - and here's no great matter; I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, And in short, I was afraid. And would it have been worth it, after all, After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worthwhile, To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball, To roll it towards some overwhelming question, To say, "I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all," -- If one, settling a pillow by her head, Should say, "That is not what I meant, at all." "That is not it, at all." And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worthwhile, After the sunsets and dooryards and sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor-- And this, and so much more?-- It is impossible to say just what I mean! But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: Would it have been worthwhile If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, And turning towards the window, should say: "That is not it, at all, That is not what I meant, at all." No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use, Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous, Almost, at times, the Fool. I grow old... I grow old... I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think they will sing to me. I have seen them riding seaward on the waves, Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black. We have lingered in the chambers of the sea, By sea-girls wreathed in seaweed, red and brown, Till human voices wake us, and we drown. [ литератрура ] |
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Thom York about "Exit Music" |
...two people who should run away before all the bad stuff starts. A personal song. | |
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Дж. Фаулз "Маг" |
Несомненно, наше понимание, что мы есть, должно исключать то, чем мы должны быть. Я - суть совпадения. Utram bibis? Aquam an undam? [ литератрура ] |
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Sorrow Knight |
всё исчезает остается лишь то, что есть |
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Источник: It's me | URL |
Aldous Huxley |
An intellectual is a person who has discovered something more interesting than sex Most human beings have an almost infinite capacity for taking things for granted. The author of the Iliad is either Homer or, if not Homer, somebody else of the same name. |
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"Crome Yellow" A. Huxley |
"One suffers so much," Denis went on, "from the fact that beautiful words don't always mean what they ought to mean. Recently, for example, I had a whole poem ruined, just because the word 'carminative' didn't mean what it ought to have meant. Carminative--it's admirable, isn't it?" "Admirable," Mr. Scogan agreed. "And what does it mean?" "It's a word I've treasured from my earliest infancy," said Denis, "treasured and loved. They used to give me cinnamon when I had a cold--quite useless, but not disagreeable. One poured it drop by drop out of narrow bottles, a golden liquor, fierce and fiery. On the label was a list of its virtues, and among other things it was described as being in the highest degree carminative. I adored the word. 'Isn't it carminative?' I used to say to myself when I'd taken my dose. It seemed so wonderfully to describe that sensation of internal warmth, that glow, that--what shall I call it?--physical self-satisfaction which followed the drinking of cinnamon. Later, when I discovered alcohol, 'carminative' described for me that similar, but nobler, more spiritual glow which wine evokes not only in the body but in the soul as well. The carminative virtues of burgundy, of rum, of old brandy, of Lacryma Christi, of Marsala, of Aleatico, of stout, of gin, of champagne, of claret, of the raw new wine of this year's Tuscan vintage--I compared them, I classified them. Marsala is rosily, downily carminative; gin pricks and refreshes while it warms. I had a whole table of carmination values. And now"--Denis spread out his hands, palms upwards, despairingly--"now I know what carminative really means." "Well, what DOES it mean?" asked Mr. Scogan, a little impatiently. "Carminative," said Denis, lingering lovingly over the syllables, "carminative. I imagined vaguely that it had something to do with carmen-carminis, still more vaguely with caro-carnis, and its derivations, like carnival and carnation. Carminative--there was the idea of singing and the idea of flesh, rose-coloured and warm, with a suggestion of the jollities of mi-Careme and the masked holidays of Venice. Carminative--the warmth, the glow, the interior ripeness were all in the word. Instead of which..." "Do come to the point, my dear Denis," protested Mr. Scogan. "Do come to the point." "Well, I wrote a poem the other day," said Denis; "I wrote a poem about the effects of love." "Others have done the same before you," said Mr. Scogan. "There is no need to be ashamed." "I was putting forward the notion," Denis went on, "that the effects of love were often similar to the effects of wine, that Eros could intoxicate as well as Bacchus. Love, for example, is essentially carminative. It gives one the sense of warmth, the glow. 'And passion carminative as wine...' was what I wrote. Not only was the line elegantly sonorous; it was also, I flattered myself, very aptly compendiously expressive. Everything was in the word carminative--a detailed, exact foreground, an immense, indefinite hinterland of suggestion. 'And passion carminative as wine...' I was not ill-pleased. And then suddenly it occurred to me that I had never actually looked up the word in a dictionary. Carminative had grown up with me from the days of the cinnamon bottle. It had always been taken for granted. Carminative: for me the word was as rich in content as some tremendous, elaborate work of art; it was a complete landscape with figures. 'And passion carminative as wine...' It was the first time I had ever committed the word to writing, and all at once I felt I would like lexicographical authority for it. A small English-German dictionary was all I had at hand. I turned up C, ca, car, carm. There it was: 'Carminative: windtreibend.' Windtreibend!" he repeated. Mr. Scogan laughed. Denis shook his head. "Ah," he said, "for me it was no laughing matter. For me it marked the end of a chapter, the death of something young and precious. There were the years--years of childhood and innocence--when I had believed that carminative meant--well, carminative. And now, before me lies the rest of my life--a day, perhaps, ten years, half a century, when I shall know that carminative means windtreibend. 'Plus ne suis ce que j'ai ete Et ne le saurai jamais etre.' It is a realisation that makes one rather melancholy." "Carminative," said Mr. Scogan thoughtfully. "Carminative," Denis repeated, and they were silent for a time. |
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Trompe-l'oeil | |
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L.Carrol "Alice in Wonderland" |
Why is a raven like a writing desk? [ литератрура ] |
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"Two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity; and I'm not sure about the universe" Albert Einstein |
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Nabokov 1966: 34-35 |
"... In the green group, there are alder-leaf f, the unripe apple of p, and pistachio t. Dull green, combined somehow with violet, is the best I can do for w. The yellows comprise various e's and i's, creamy d, bright-golden y, and u, whose alphabetical value I can express only by 'brassy with an olive sheen.' In the brown group, there are the rich rubbery tone of soft g, paler j, and the drab shoelace of h. Finally, among the reds, b has the tone called burnt sienna by painters, m is a fold of pink flannel, and today I have at last perfectly matched v with 'Rose Quartz' in Maerz and Paul's Dictionary of Color. The word for rainbow, a primary, but decidedly muddy, rainbow, is in my private language the hardly pronounceable: kzspygv" | |
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8 1/2 |
Asa Nisi Masa | |
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Сатпрем |
В этой безмолвной прозрачности мы вскоре приходим еще к одному открытию, которое имеет исключительно важное значение для практики. мы обнаруживаем, что не только чужие мысли приходят к нам извне, но и наши собственные мысли приходят извне. Когда мы становимся достаточно прозрачными, мы можем чувствовать в неподвижном молчании ума маленькие вращающиеся завихрения, которые касаются нашей атмосферы подобно маленьким, слабо различным вибрациям.ю притягивающимнаше внимание. Когда мы приближаемся к ним, чтобы "увидеть, что это такое", т.е. если мы позволяем одному из этих завихрений войти в нас, то внезапно обнаруживаем, что наши мысли чем-то заняты: то, что мы чувствовали на периферии нашего существа, есть мысль в своей чистой форме или, скорее, ментальная вибрация, существовавшая перед тем, как незаметно войти в нас и появиться затем на поверхности нашего существа, приняв личную форму и давая нам право торжественно заявить: "Это - моя мысль" [ сознание ] |
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послушать! | |
Karlheinz Stockhausen Can [ notes ] |
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S.King "The End of the Whole Mess" |
Bobby when he came here tonight cryeen and I sed Bobby I luv you Bobby sed Ime sorry Bowwow Ime sorry I made the hole world ful of foals and dumbbels and I sed better fouls and bells than a big black sinder in spaz and he cryed and I cryed Bobby I luv you and he sed will you give me a shot of the spacial wadder and I sed yez and he said wil you ride it down and I sed yez an I think I did but I cant reely remember I see wurds but dont no what they mean [ литератрура ] |
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Hi, Life! Are you going on? She must be lonely, cause she was wearing a hug-me-tight [ curiosities ] [ посетило ] |
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Running is easy! It's just putting one foot in front of the other. (c) no_more_horses |
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forget-my-notes in vain in vein [ посетило ] |
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Sorrow Knight |
перестать существовать - по-моему в этом есть что-то сексуальное [ curiosities ] |
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Источник: It's me | URL |
"Звёздное небо сознания" документальный фильм |
Я хотел использовать один мозг, два мозга, пожалуй, ещё лучше. По сути, нашему мозгу все равно - есть реальности или нет. Вопрос о том, что первично сознание или материя, вообще, не уместен. Все клетки человеческого организма полностью обновляются за 7 лет - при этом мы остаемся теми же людьми, с теми же сознанияем и памятью. [ curiosities ] [ сознание ] |
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Sorrow Knight |
Я думаю, «непроизносимое» могло бы быть единственным возможным оксюмороном из одного слова. (c) [ язык ] |
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Источник: It's me | URL |
Комментарии С. Хоружего к "Улиссу" Джойса |
"Запоминаю только идеи и ощущения" - Маллиган оправдывает свою забывчивость философски: идущая от Д. Локка английская философско-психологическая традиция считает, что память человека содержит лишь идеи и ощущения, но не полные образы прошедшего. "Память природы" - понятие из учения английского теософа А.П. Синнета (1840-1921), одна из версий общетеософской концепции Универсальной Памяти, где хранятся все события и идеи от сотворения мира. Nacheinander... Nebeneinander - Г.Э.Лессинг (драмматург, теоретик искусства) В своём классическом сочинениии "Лаокоон" указал, что в зрительных искусствах, какова живопись, принципом упорядочения элементов является их рядоположение или же nebeneinander; а в искусствах звуковых, какова поэзия, этот принцип есть последование, nacheinander Протеизм Позади у него лежало великое будущее - в гомеровских представлениях о времени будущее часто предполагается позади (оно не доступно взору, как то, что за спиной человека), прошедшее же - впереди (ибо оно - перед глазами) [ curiosities ] |
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Дж. Джойс: Улисс |
- Но вы сами-то не из верующих? - продолжал расспрашивать Хейнс. - Я хочу сказать: верущих в узком смысле слова. творение из ничего, чудеса, Бог как личность - Мне думается, у этого слова один смысл, - сказал Стивен. * * * Мысль - это мысль о мысли. Безмятежная ясность. * * * И тьма в свете светит, и свет не объемлит её. * * * Закрой глаза и смотри * * * Но я, энтелехия, форма форм, сохраняю я благодаря памяти, ибо формы меняются непрестанно. [ литератрура ] |
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