entertain me…

Read Before You Die:

City of God ¦ e.l. doctorow

I have a sadness that the followers of Jesus led us down the wrong path. A two thousand year detour. I don’t mean the beauty of the ethics, of the man. I mean the theology. I mean when they stepped him up in rank from prophet. Gave him familial ties….he should have made it clear, the messianic idea as a longing, a navigating principle, redemptive not on arrival but in never quite getting here.

Surfacing ¦ margaret atwood

Pleasure and pain are side by side. But most of the brain is neutral; nervless, like fat. I rehearsed emotions, naming them: joy, peace, guilt, release, love and hate, react, relate: what to feel was like what to wear, you watched the others and memorized it. But the only thing there was the fear that I was not alive. A negative, the difference between the shadow of a pin and what it’s like when you stick it in your arm.

Rameau’s Niece ¦ schine

Sometimes ideas, sometimes philosophy itself, are, is, just stupid…for example, for centuries there has been an argument about subjectivity vs. objectivity….But that is just stupid. Obviously what we think or say or notice has to be subjective. But we wouldn’t be able to think it, say it, or notice it if there weren’t an ‘it’ to think, say or notice, would we? And we wouldn’t have any subjective information to project onto it if we hadn’t already received that information from objective impressions before. But then again it is not the ‘it’ that does the thinking, it’s me…there’s no subjectivity anymore because there’s no subject. Because any attempt to act or perceive as a subject suggests that you are trying to conquer the object, and that’s bad because it’s impossible. Meaning is impossible to obtain, so any search for it is false and oppressive. And anyway, the subject is now the object, because we are trapped by language, which determines what we say and what we do. So the object – the world – is now really the subject, because it holds all the cards. So finally, subjectivity is rooted in objectivity and objectivity can’t really exist without subjectivity. Big Deal.

Propositions. How can I be sure of their validity? Do they correspond to facts? Are they internally logical? Does certainty exist? Why can’t I fall asleep? What is sleep? Does sleep exist? Not for me. I must demonstrate the validity of propositions. I must demonstrate the validity of sleep. On the other hand, maybe I am asleep, and my inability to fall asleep is a dream.

Man’s Search for Meaning ¦ frankl

Don’t aim at success – the more you aim at it and make it a target, the more you are going to miss it. For success, like happiness, cannot be pursued; it must ensue, and it only does so as the unintended side-effect of one’s personal dedication to a cause greater than oneself or as the by-product of one’s surrender to a person other than oneself. Happiness must happen, and the same holds for success; you have to let it happen by not caring about it.

Women of the Silk ¦ tsukiyama

Her first memory of pain was an image of her mother. Pei was three or four the first time, and the same thing was happening now.

On the Golden Porch ¦ tolstaya

Depression waves a sleeve and spreads out a boundless stony desert – hoarfrost shining on the cold rocky plain, stars frozen indifferently, the white moon indifferently drawing circles, the steadily stepping camel’s bridle jangling sadly, a rider drawing near, wrapped in chilled stripped cloth of Bukhara. Who are you rider? Why have you dropped your reins? Why have you wrapped up your face? Let me loosen your stiff fingers. What is this, rider, are you dead?…The rider’s mouth gapes, a bottomless pit; his hair is tangled, and deep sorrowful gutters have been etched in his cheeks by tears flowing for millennia.

Aurora’s Motive ¦ hackl
Borderliners ¦ hoeg

What is time? We ascended toward the light, five floors up, and split up into thirteen rows facing the god who unlocks the gates of morning.

A Star Called Henry ¦ doyle

She walked into my father. Melody Nash met Henry Smart. She walked right into him, and he fell. She was half his weight, half his height, six years younger but he fell straight over like a cut tree. Love at first sight? Felled by her beauty? No. He was maggoty drunk and missing his leg. He was holding himself up with a number seven shovel he’d found inside an open door somewhere back the way he’d come when Melody Nash walked into him and dropped him onto Dorset Street. It was a Sunday. She was coming from half-eight mass, he was struggling out of Saturday. Missing a leg and his sense of direction, he hit the street with his forehead and lay still. Melody dropped the beads she’d made herself and stared down at the man. She couldn’t see his face; it was kissing the street. She saw a huge back, a back as big as a bed, inside a coat as old and crusted as the cobbles around it. Shovel-sized hands at the end of his outstretched arms, and one leg. Just the one. She actually lifted the coat to check.– Where’s your leg gone, mister? said Melody

Sea of Light ¦ levin

Maybe this is life from now on and everything will be like this: You will crawl through all the seconds, all the minutes, managing smiles to protect everyone else from the hole you know is waiting there for you, making promises that cannot be kept in a world of sick guts and frightened longing, until it will seem that there has never been anyting inside of you but the failure. It will seem that you have never been capable of any motion at all except to rip into something and grab and cringe, dig your fingers in and hold fast to the pain, have never carried anything off with sureness, or elegance, or grace.

Steps ¦ kosinski

I want you, you alone. But beyond you and me together, I see myself in our love-making. It is this vision of myself as your lover I wish to retain and make more real. But you want me for what I am, apart from you, don’t you? I don’t know you apart from myself. When I am alone, when you are not here, you are no longer real; then, it’s only imagining again. Then, all you need me for is to provide a stage on which you can project and view yourself, and see how your discarded experiences become alive again when they affect me. Am I right? You don’t want me to love you; all you want is for me to abandon myself to the dreams and fantasies which you inspire in me. All you want is to prolong this impulse, this moment.

Secondhand Smoke ¦ thane rosenbaum

The world had mistaken a forest fire for a spectator sport while a holocaust consumed the best of European Jewry.

A Story Like the Wind ¦ van der post

Grief grows great and terrible if beads are not strung for it. Since when has grief become a stranger that we should shut our kraals against it and not welcome it to our fires and warm is with our tears? Is it not a sister to our joy that has a right of its own, even in the huts of kings?

Glas ¦ derrida

Thus: spirit is. Alone. Its contrary, matter, is only inasmuch as it is not what it is, inasmuch as, in order to be what it is (falling weight and the tendency of dispersion to unity), it becomes what it is not: spirit. Spirit is. Alone. Being is being (close) by self. Weight and dispersion, the essence of matter, could not qualify an essence. Matter has no essence; its esence is its contrary, its essence is not having an essence. Dispersion, like weight (nonunity and non-ideality), has no essence. Thus is not. Being is idea.” (23a) “Why make a knife pass between two texts? Why, at least, write two texts at once? What scene is being played? What is desired? In other words, what is there to be afraid of? who is afraid? of whom? There is a wish to make writing ungraspable, of course. When your head is full of the matters here you are reminded that the law of the text is in the other, and so on endlessly. By knocking up the margin – (no) more margin, (no) more frame – one annuls it, blurs the line, takes back from you the standard rule that would enable you to delimit, to cut up, to dominate. You are no longer let know where the head of this discourse is, or the body, the neck is dissimulated from you so that you cannot bear your own.” (64b)

Of Grammatology ¦ derrida

There is nothing outside the text.

Fragments ¦ baudrillard

For me, a primate in the world of artificial intelligence, the screen remains a screen. At the computer screen, I look for the film and find only the subtitles. The text on the screen in neither a text nor an image – it is a transitional object…which has meaning only in refraction from one screen to another, in inarticulate, purely luminous signaling terms.

The most difficult thing in thinking about evil [la pensee du mal] is to expurgate it of any notion of misfortune [malheur] and guilt.

Must one really force oneself to think? Sometimes it seems the other experience – of the progressive extenuation of both thought and the energy for writing – is newer and more extraordinary. How far can this dishabituation go?

The Birth of the Clinic: An Archaeology of Medical Perception ¦ foucault

We are doomed historically to history, to the patient construction of discourses about discourses, and to the task of hearing what has already been said

Being and Nothingness ¦ sartre

Existence precedes and rules essence.

Philosophical Investigations ¦ wittgenstein

55. “What the names in language signify must be indestructible; for it must be possible to describe the state of affairs in which everything destructible is destroyed. And this description will contain words; and what corresponds to these cannot then be destroyed, for otherwise/the words would have no meaning.” I must not saw off the branch on which I am sitting.

One might, of course, object at once that this description would have to except itself from the destruction.

–But what corresponds to the separate words of the description and so cannot be destroyed if it is true, is what gives the words their meaning — is that without which they would have no meaning. In a sense, however, this man is surely what corresponds to his name. But he is destructible, and his name does not lose its meaning when the bearer is destroyed

–An example of something corresponding to the name, and without which it would have no meaning, is a paradigm that is used in connexion with the name in the language-game.

56. But what if no such sample is part of the language, and we bear in mind the colour (for instance) that a word stands for? –“And if we bear it in mind then it comes before our mind’s eye when we utter the word. (sic) So, if it is always supposed to be possible for us to remember it, it must be in itself indestructible.”

–But what do we regard as the criterion for remembering it right?

Meridian ¦ walker

I drink to our ruined house,
to the color of my life,
to our loneliness together;
and to you I raise my glass,
to lying lips that have betrayed us,
to dead-cold, pitiless eyes,
and to the hard realities;
that the world is brutal and coarse,
that God in fact has not saved us.

My People Is the Enemy ¦ stringfellow

Poverty means not just density of population or large families or dilapidated housing or infestation of vermin or the absence of privacy or the obsolescent sanitation or low income or unemployability or retarded education or indifferent politicians or the congestion of the streets – it is all of these tangled up in the life of each person. Poverty is the endless daily attrition of contending with the most primitive concerns of human existence…

Scarlet & Black ¦ stendhal

What difficult things have I ever done to give me the right to judge poor devils who once in their lives, after all, have dared to plan, to embark on action?

———————————————————————————————————————————————————–

Le silence eternal de ces espaces infinis m’effrai. -Blaise Pascal

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~ by aikaterine on July 10, 2007.

2 Responses to “entertain me…”

  1. Wow…I can’t believe you can read! I guess the Adderall must be working well for you? I can barely get through a few pages or I’m skipping madly about the book and reading a paragraph here…there Then I just put it down and say forget it.

    I think I was doing that the other day with three of them at the same time?!

    Oh, nice to meet you…I’m PA and I also have Bipolar and ADD. Plus seizures and migraines but they’re all tucked away in bed for now so that’s fine. Seizure free for a while and haven’t had a migraine in…well, maybe a year or less.

    I’ve just found a new psychiatrist so we’re going to (please make it happen soon, please!) go the Concerta route. You have no idea how long I’ve been trying to get on stims. Everyone thought I’d go completely over the edge due to the BP. I said there are loads of people with the comorbidity who take stims and they are fine. And if I’m not? Quit the med! Simple!

    Anyway, I like your blog…consider yourself blogrolled.

    Take care,
    PA

  2. Thank you, and it is really nice to hear from someone who has ADD going on as well. You are the first one. The Adderall is absolutely necessary for me. Actually, once I get around to posting my mood charts (hopefully tonight). You will notice that if I get off the adderall for a few days, I drop the lamictal. Which is no good. So yeah, the stimulates work.

    I did spend a lot of time learning to adjust them down when I was feeling manic. And, because I have to adjust the dosage, I am not able to take any of the extended release. But, I think I am getting the hang of it. I need to take a look at your blog, now that I know there is another comorbid out there.

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