"- I want to be prettier.
- How would you know you are pretty enough?
- I would know.
- So you wanna know when you’re pretty enough?
- No, I want to be prettier.
- So you want became prettier, until you know you’re pretty enough?
- That can happen."
"Books and books and books. And then, just when an observer might be lured into thinking that thai: must be it, more books.
Barely a square inch of wood or wall or floor was visible. Walking was only allowed by pathways cut between the piles of books. Treading these pathways with books waist-high either side was like negotiating a maze. Trefusis called the room his ‘librarinth’. Areas where seating was possible were like lagoons in a coral strand of books.
Adrian supposed that any man who could speak twenty-three languages and read forty was likely to collect a few improving volumes along the way. Trefusis himself was highly dismissive of them.
‘Waste of trees,’ he had once said. ‘Stupid, ugly, clumsy, heavy things. The sooner technology comes up with a reliable alternative the better.’
Early in the term he had flung a book it Adrian’s head in irritation at some crass comment. Adrian had caught it and been shocked to see that it was a first edition of Les Fleurs du Mal.
‘Books are not holy relics,’ Trefusis had said. ‘Words may be my religion, but when it comes to worship, I am very low church. The temples and the graven images are of no interest to me. The superstitious mammetry of a bourgeois obsession for books is severely annoying. Think how many children are put off reading by prissy little people ticking them off whenever they turn a page carelessly. The world is so fond of saying that books should be “treated with respect”. But when are we told that words should be treated with respect. From our earliest years we are taught to revere only the outward and visible. Ghastly literary types maundering on about books as “objects”. Yes, that does happen to be a first edition. A present from Noel Annan, as a matter of fact. But I assure you that a foul yellow livre de poche would have been just as useful to me. Not that I fail to appreciate Noel’s generosity. A book is a piece of technology. If people wish to amass them and pay high prices for this one or that, well and good. But they can’t pretend that it is any higher or more intelligent a calling than collecting snuff-boxes or bubble-gum cards. I may read a book, I may use it as an ashtray, a paperweight, a doorstop or even as a missile to throw at silly young men who make fatuous remarks. So. Think again.’ And Adrian had thought again."
"Ничто не отрывает человека от фундамента его инстинктов с такой силой, как его способность к обучению, которая превращается в истинную жажду постоянных трансформаций стилей человеческого поведения. Эта способность, более, чем что-либо другое, несет ответственность за изменение условий его существования и за потребность приспосабливаться к последствиям развития цивилизации. Она также является главнейшим источником этих многочисленных психических проблем и нарушений, которые вызваны все более углубляющимся отчуждением человека от его инстинктивной основы, то есть потерей корней и отождествлением с осознанным знанием самого себя, усилением внимания к сознанию за счет ослабления внимания к бессознательному. В результате современный человек знает самого себя только в той степени, в какой он может себя осознать - способность, в значительной мере зависящая от окружения, знание и контролирование которого принудили или навели на определенные модификации его изначальных инстинктивных тенденций. Следовательно, его сознание ориентируется, в основном, на изучение окружающего его мира, к особенностям которого он и должен приспосабливать свои психические и технические ресурсы. Задача эта настолько сложная, а ее решение сулит такие большие выгоды, что в ходе этого процесса человек забывает о самом себе, теряя из виду свою инстинктивную природу и заменяя свою истинную сущность придуманной им концепцией самого себя. В результате чего он незаметно соскальзывает в чисто концептуальный мир, в котором результат деятельности его сознания все больше вытесняет реальность."
I’m so sorry to hear that life is getting you down at the moment. Goodness knows, it can be so tough when nothing seems to fit and little seems to be fulfilling. I’m not sure there’s any specific advice I can give that will help bring life back its savour. Although they mean well, it’s sometimes quite galling to be reminded how much people love you when you don’t love yourself that much. I’ve found that it’s of some help to think of one’s moods and feelings about the world as being similar to weather. Here are some obvious things about the weather:
It’s real. You can’t change it by wishing it away. If it’s dark and rainy it really is dark and rainy and you can’t alter it. It might be dark and rainy for two weeks in a row.
It will be sunny one day. It isn’t under one’s control as to when the sun comes out, but come out it will. One day. It really is the same with one’s moods, I think. The wrong approach is to believe that they are illusions. They are real. Depression, anxiety, listlessness - these are as real as the weather - AND EQUALLY NOT UNDER ONE’s CONTROL. Not one’s fault.
They will pass: they really will. In the same way that one has to accept the weather, so one has to accept how one feels about life sometimes. ‘Today’s a crap day,’ is a perfectly realistic approach. It’s all about finding a kind of mental umbrella. ‘Hey-ho, it’s raining inside: it isn’t my fault and there’s nothing I can do about it, but sit it out. But the sun may well come out tomorrow and when it does, I shall take full advantage.’ I don’t know if any of that is of any use: it may not seem it, and if so, I’m sorry. I just thought I’d drop you a line to wish you well in your search to find a little more pleasure and purpose in life. Very best wishes,
A group of priests, ministers and rabbies are calling on president Obama to stop the White House’s drone program. Priests, ministers and rabbies weren’t planning on working together, but they happend to walk into the same bar. — yesterday’s Fallon Mono
"…He had gladly rid himself of the tedious business of defecation, but he was no more willing to give up the pleasure of emptying his bladder than he was willing to give up the possibility of sex. Both acts were entirely arbitrary, now that they were divorced from any biological imperative, but that only brought them closer to other meaningless pleasures, like music. If Beethoven deserved to endure, so did urination."