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Monday, December 26, 2011

Label Makers




22

Label Makers

Life is like heady wine.

Everyone reads the label on the bottle.

Hardly anyone tastes the wine.


Buddha once pointed to a flower and asked each of his disciples to say something about it.

One pronounced a lecture.

Another a poem.

Yet another a parable.

Each outdid the other in depth and erudition.

Label-makers!


Mahakashyap smiled and held his tongue.

Only he had seen the flower.


If I could only taste a bird,

a flower,

a tree,

a human face!

But, alas, I have no time.

My energy is spent deciphering the label.


The Song of the Bird

Anthony de Mello

Monday, December 5, 2011

Fernando Pessoa


Quotations



- The poet is a faker
Who's so good at his act
He even fakes the pain
Of pain he feels in fact.

- I am nothing.
I will never be anything.
I cannot wish to be anything.
Bar that, I have in me all the dreams of the world.

- Literature is the most agreeable way of ignoring life.

- My nation is the Portuguese language.

- I've always rejected being understood.
To be understood is to prostitute oneself.
I prefer to be taken seriously for what I'm not, remaining humanly unknown, with naturalness and all due respect.

- I'm two, and both keep their distance — Siamese twins that aren't attached.

- My past is everything I failed to be.

- We all have two lives: The true, the one we dreamed of in childhood And go on dreaming of as adults in a substratum of mist; the false, the one we love when we live with others, the practical, the useful, the one we end up by being put in a coffin.

- To have opinions is to sell out to yourself.
To have no opinions is to exist.
To have every opinion is to be a poet.

- I continuously feel that I was someone else, that I felt something else, that I thought something else.
What I'm attending here is a show with another set. And the show I'm attending is myself.

- But I am not perfect in my way of putting things. Because I lack the divine simplicity of being only what I appear to be.

- In the ordinary jumble of my literary drawer, I sometimes find texts I wrote ten, fifteen, or even more years ago.
And many of the seem to me written by a stranger:
I simply do not recognize myself in them. There was a person who wrote them, and it was I. I experienced them, but it was in another life, from which I just woke up, as if from someone else's dream.

- There are metaphors more real than the people who walk in the street.
There are images tucked away in books that live more vividly than many men and women.
There are phrases from literary works that have a positively human personality.
There are passages from my own writing that chill me with fright, so distinctly do I feel them as people, so sharply outlined do they appear against the walls of my room, at night, in shadows…
I've written sentences whose sound, read out loud or silently (impossible to hide their sound), can only be of something that acquired absolute exteriority and a full-fledged soul.

- To love is to tire of being alone; it is therefore a cowardice, a betrayal of ourselves. (It is exceedingly important that we not love.)

- To know nothing about yourself is to live. To know yourself badly is to think.

- Each of us is several, is many, is a profusion of selves. So that the self who disdains his surroundings is not the same as the self who suffers or takes joy in them.
In the vast colony of our being there are many species of people who think and feel in different ways.

- In my heart there's a peaceful anguish, and my calm is made of resignation.

- Blessed are those who entrust their lives to no one.

- There are no norms. All people are exceptions to a rule that doesn't exist.

- I don't know what I feel or what I want to feel. I don't know what to think or what I am.

- I'd like to write the encomium of a new incoherence that could serve as the negative charter for the new anarchy of souls.

- Rocks in my path? I keep them all. With them I shall build my castle.

- Having waited for the urge to go, which I knew wouldn’t come.

- Let's buy books so as not to read them; let's go to concerts without caring to hear the music or see who's there; let's take long walks because we're sick of walking; and let's spend whole days in the country, just because it bores us.

Fernando Pessoa
(June 13, 1888, Lisbon – November 30, 1935, Lisbon),
Fernando Pessoa was a Portuguese poet, writer, literary critic and translator described as one of the most significant literary figures of the 20th century and one of the greatest poets in the Portuguese language.

Sunday, October 16, 2011

José Saramago


Quotations



  • Divorcing Shua is no problem, the problem is how to divorce myself, and that's impossible.

  • People don't choose their dreams, dreams choose people!

  • Human vocabulary is still not capable, and probably never will be, of knowing, recognizing, and communicating everything that can be humanly experienced and felt.

  • Words were not given to man in order to conceal his thoughts.

  • News is nothing but words, and you can never really tell if words are news.

  • Words that come from the heart are never spoken, they get caught in the throat and can only be read in one’s eyes.

  • I never appreciated 'positive heroes' in literature. They are almost always clichés, copies of copies, until the model is exhausted. I prefer perplexity, doubt, uncertainty, not just because it provides a more 'productive' literary raw material, but because that is the way we humans really are.

  • Inside us there is something that has no name, that something is what we are.

  • I think what we need is a global protest movement of people who won't give up.

  • Why did we become blind, I don't know, perhaps one day we'll find out, Do you want me to tell you what I think, Yes, do, I don't think we did go blind, I think we are blind, Blind but seeing, Blind people who can see, but do not see.

  • ...sleep is a skilled magician, it changes the proportions of things, the distances between them, it separates people and they're lying next to each other, brings them together and they can barely see one another...

  • People live with the illusion that we have a democratic system, but it's only the outward form of one. In reality we live in a plutocracy, a government of the rich.

  • Society has to change, but the political powers we have at the moment are not enough to effect this change. The whole democratic system would have to be rethought.

  • The world is governed by institutions that are not democratic - the World Bank, the IMF, the WTO.

  • What kind of world is this that can send machines to Mars and does nothing to stop the killing of a human being?


José Saramago
(16 November 1922 – 18 June 2010) 


José de Sousa Saramago was a Nobel-laureate (1998) Portuguese novelist, poet, playwright and journalist. His works, some of which can be seen as allegories, commonly present subversive perspectives on historic events, emphasizing the human factor.

More than two million copies of his books have been sold in Portugal alone and his work has been translated into 25 languages. He founded the National Front for the Defence of Culture (Lisbon, 1992) with Freitas-Magalhães and others. In 1992, the Portuguese government, under Prime Minister Aníbal Cavaco Silva, ordered the removal of The Gospel According to Jesus Christ from the European Literary Prize's shortlist, claiming the work was religiously offensive. Saramago complained about censorship and moved to Lanzarote in the Canary Islands, Spain, where he resided until his death.

A proponent of libertarian communism, Saramago came into conflict with some groups, such as the Catholic Church. Saramago was an atheist who defended love as an instrument to improve the human condition.

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

The alphabet prayer

009


The alphabet prayer
A Hasidic tale:
Late one evening a poor farmer on his way back from the market found himself without his prayer book.

The wheel of his cart had come off right in the middle of the woods and it distressed him that this day should pass without his having said his prayers.

So this is the prayer he made:

“I have done something very foolish, Lord.

I came away from home this morn­ing without my prayer book and my memory is such that I cannot recite a single prayer without it.

So this is what I am going to do:

I shall recite the alphabet five times very slowly and you, to whom all prayers are known, can put the letters together to form the prayers I can’t remember.”

And the Lord said to his angels,

“Of all the prayers I have heard today,

this one was undoubtedly the best

because it came from a heart that was simple and sincere.”

The prayer of the frog. Volume – I

Anthony de Mello

Monday, August 22, 2011

The Magician



The Magic of Humanity


The stories that you write, the pictures that you paint, the music you compose,

the crazy, foolish and incomprehensible things you say,

they’ll always be man’s apogee, his true flag […]

these stupid things you say—no matter how supremely unnecessary, perhaps even because of it —

will always be what most distinguishes us from beasts.

Even more than the atom, Sputnik, or interstellar rockets.

And the day these stupid things are no longer done or said,

men will become the wretched naked worms they were in caveman days.”



“Il colombre e altri cinquanta racconti”

Dino Buzzati

Dino Buzzati-Traverso (16 October 1906 - 28 January 1972) was an Italian novelist, short story writer, painter and poet, as well as a journalist for Corriere della Sera.

His worldwide fame is mostly due to his novel Il deserto dei Tartari, translated into English as The Tartar Steppe.

Thursday, August 4, 2011

The difference between Love and lust


Love according to Shakespeare

Love comforteth like sunshine after rain,

But Lust's effect is tempest after sun;

Love's gentle spring doth always fresh remain,

Lust's winter comes ere summer half be done.

Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies;

Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies.



Venus and Adonis
William Shakespeare

Monday, August 1, 2011

Jerome David Salinger, quotes

The Catcher in the Rye
Quotes



I'm the most terrific liar you ever saw in your life. It's awful. If I'm on my way to the store to buy a magazine, even, and somebody asks me where I'm going, I'm liable to say I'm going to the opera.


Where I lived at Pencey, I lived in the Ossenburger Memorial Wing of the new dorms. It was only for juniors and seniors. I was a junior. My roommate was a senior. It was named after this guy Ossenburger that went to Pencey. He made a pot of dough in the undertaking business after he got out of Pencey. What he did, he started these undertaking parlors all over the country that you could get members of your family buried for about five bucks apiece. You should see old Ossenburger. He probably just shoves them in a sack and dumps them in the river. Anyway, he gave Pencey a pile of dough, and they named our wing alter him.


The first football game of the year, he came up to school in this big goddamn Cadillac, and we all had to stand up in the grandstand and give him a locomotive-that's a cheer. Then, the next morning, in chapel, he made a speech that lasted about ten hours. He started off with about fifty corny jokes, just to show us what a regular guy he was. Very big deal. Then he started telling us how he was never ashamed, when he was in some kind of trouble or something, to get right down his knees and pray to God. He told us we should always pray to God-talk to Him and all-wherever we were. He told us we ought to think of Jesus as our buddy and all. He said he talked to Jesus all the time. Even when he was driving his car. That killed me. I just see the big phoney bastard shifting into first gear and asking Jesus to send him a few more stiffs.


What I like best is a book that's at least funny once in a while. I read a lot of classical books…, and I like them, and I read a lot of war books and mysteries and all, but they don't knock me out too much. What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though. I wouldn't mind calling this Isak Dinesen up. And Ring Lardner, except that D.B. told me he's dead.


Jerome David Salinger

(January 1, 1919 – January 27, 2010)

He was an American author, best known for his 1951 novel The Catcher in the Rye, as well as his reclusive nature. His last original published work was in 1965; he gave his last interview in 1980.

Raised in Manhattan, Salinger began writing short stories while in secondary school, and published several stories in the early 1940s before serving in World War II. Salinger published his first stories in Story magazine which was started by Whit Burnett. In 1948 he published the critically acclaimed story "A Perfect Day for Bananafish" in The New Yorker magazine, which became home to much of his subsequent work. In 1951 Salinger released his novel The Catcher in the Rye, an immediate popular success. His depiction of adolescent alienation and loss of innocence in the protagonist Holden Caulfield was influential, especially among adolescent readers. The novel remains widely read and controversial, selling around 250,000 copies a year.

The success of The Catcher in the Rye led to public attention and scrutiny: Salinger became reclusive, publishing new work less frequently. He followed Catcher with a short story collection, Nine Stories (1953), a volume containing a novella and a short story, Franny and Zooey (1961), and a volume containing two novellas, Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters and Seymour: An Introduction (1963). His last published work, a novella entitled "Hapworth 16, 1924", appeared in The New Yorker on June 19, 1965.

Afterward, Salinger struggled with unwanted attention, including a legal battle in the 1980s with biographer Ian Hamilton and the release in the late 1990s of memoirs written by two people close to him: Joyce Maynard, an ex-lover; and Margaret Salinger, his daughter. In 1996, a small publisher announced a deal with Salinger to publish "Hapworth 16, 1924" in book form, but amid the ensuing publicity, the release was indefinitely delayed. He made headlines around the globe in June 2009, after filing a lawsuit against another writer for copyright infringement resulting from that writer's use of one of Salinger's characters from The Catcher in the Rye. Salinger died of natural causes on January 27, 2010, at his home in Cornish, New Hampshire.

Sunday, July 24, 2011

They do exist!

They do exist!


We have people in the world like this.

No matter what scholars and priests and theologians tell you,

there are and have been people who have no quarrels, no jealousies, no conflicts, no wars, no enmities, none!

They exist in my country, or, sad to say, they existed until relatively recently.

I've had Jesuit friends go out to live and work among people who, they assured me, were incapable of stealing or lying.

One Sister said to me that when she went to the northeast of India to work among some tribes there, the people would lock up nothing.

Nothing was ever stolen and they never told lies until the Indian government and missionaries showed up.

Awareness

Anthony de Mello

Thursday, July 21, 2011

Emile M. Cioran


Emile M. Cioran Quotes


There are eyes which can no longer learn anything from the sun, and souls afflicted by nights from which they will never recover.

Anyone can escape into sleep, we are all geniuses when we dream, the butcher's the poet's equal there.

Anyone who speaks in the name of others is always an imposter!

Consciousness is much more than the thorn, it is the dagger in the flesh.

Each concession we make is accompanied by an inner diminution of which we are not immediately conscious.

Ennui is the echo in us of time tearing itself apart.

In a republic, that paradise of debility, the politician is a petty tyrant who obeys the laws.

Isn't history ultimately the result of our fear of boredom?

It is not worth the bother of killing yourself, since you always kill yourself too late.

Jealousy - that jumble of secret worship and ostensible aversion.

One does not inhabit a country; one inhabits a language. That is our country, our fatherland - and no other.

We are born to exist, not to know, to be, not to assert ourselves.

Woes and wonders of Power, that tonic hell, synthesis of poison and panacea.

The fanatic is incorruptible: if he kills for an idea, he can just as well get himself killed for one; in either case, tyrant or martyr, he is a monster.

To want fame is to prefer dying scorned than forgotten.


You will suffer from everything, and to excess:
the winds will seem gales; every touch a dagger; smiles, slaps; trifles, cataclysms.
Waking may come to an end, but its light survives within you; one does not see in the dark with impunity,
one does not gather its lessons without danger;
there are eyes which can no longer learn anything from the sun, and souls afflicted by nights from which they will never recover.

There are eyes which can no longer learn anything from the sun, and souls afflicted by nights from which they will never recover.


Emil Cioran
Emil Cioran (April 8, 1911 – June 20, 1995) was a Romanian philosopher and essayist.
Emil Cioran was born in Răşinari, Sibiu County, which was part of Austria-Hungary at the time. His father, Emilian Cioran, was a Romanian Orthodox priest, while his mother, Elvira Cioran (born Comaniciu), was originally from Veneţia de Jos, a commune near Făgăraş.
After studying humanities at the Gheorghe Lazăr High School in Sibiu (Hermannstadt), Cioran, aged 17, started to study philosophy at the University of Bucharest. Upon his entrance into the University, he met Eugène Ionesco and Mircea Eliade, the three of them becoming lifelong friends. Future Romanian philosopher Constantin Noica and future Romanian thinker Petre Ţuţea, became his closest colleagues for they all had Tudor Vianu and Nae Ionescu as their professors. Cioran, Eliade, and Ţuţea became supporters of the ideas that their philosophy professor, Nae Ionescu, had become a fervent advocate of a tendency deemed Trăirism, which fused Existentialism with ideas common in various forms of Fascism.
Cioran had a good command of German. His first studies revolved around Immanuel Kant, Arthur Schopenhauer, and especially Friedrich Nietzsche. He became an agnostic, taking as an axiom "the inconvenience of existence". During his studies at the University he was also influenced by the works of Georg Simmel, Ludwig Klages and Martin Heidegger, but also by the Russian philosopher Lev Shestov, who added the belief that life is arbitrary to Cioran’s central system of thought. He then graduated with a thesis on Henri Bergson (however, Cioran later rejected Bergson, claiming the latter did not comprehend the tragedy of life).
In 1933, he obtained a scholarship to the University of Berlin, where he came into contact with Klages and Nicolai Hartmann. While in Berlin, he became interested in measures taken by the Nazi regime, contributed a column to Vremea dealing with the topic (in which Cioran confessed that "there is no present-day politician that I see as more sympathetic and admirable than Hitler", while expressing his approval for the Night of the Long Knives — "what has humanity lost if the lives of a few imbeciles were taken"), and, in a letter written to Petru Comarnescu, described himself as "a Hitlerist". He held similar views about Italian fascism, welcoming victories in the Second Italo-Abyssinian War, arguing that: "Fascism is a shock, without which Italy is a compromise comparable to today's Romania".
Cioran’s first book, On the Heights of Despair (more accurately translated: "On the Summits of Despair"), was published in Romania in 1934. It was awarded the Commission’s Prize and the Young Writers Prize for one of the best books written by an unpublished young writer. Successively, The Book of Delusions (1935), The Transfiguration of Romania (1936), and Tears and Saints (1937), were also published in Romania.
Although Cioran was never a member of the group, it was during this time in Romania that he began taking an interest in the ideas put forth by the Iron Guard - a far right organization whose nationalist ideology he supported until the early years of World War II, despite allegedly disapproving of their violent methods.
Cioran revised The Transfiguration of Romania heavily in its second edition released in the 1990s, eliminating numerous passages he considered extremist or "pretentious and stupid." In its original form, the book expressed sympathy for totalitarianism, a view which was also present in various articles Cioran wrote at the time, and which aimed to establish "urbanization and industrialization" as "the two obsessions of a rising people". Marta Petreu's An Infamous Past: E.M. Cioran and the Rise of Fascism in Romania, published in English in 2005, gives an in-depth analysis of The Transfiguration.
His early call for modernization was, however, hard to reconcile with the traditionalism of the Iron Guard. In 1934, he wrote: "I find that in Romania the sole fertile, creative, and invigorating nationalism can only be one which does not just dismiss tradition, but also denies and defeats it". Disapproval of what he viewed as specifically Romanian traits had been present in his works ("In any maxim, in any proverb, in any reflection, our people expresses the same shyness in front of life, the same hesitation and resignation... [...] Everyday Romanian [truisms] are dumbfounding."), which led to criticism from the far right Gândirea (its editor, Nichifor Crainic, had called The Transfiguration of Romania "a bloody, merciless, massacre of today's Romania, without even [the fear] of matricide and sacrilege"), as well as from various Iron Guard papers.
After coming back from Berlin (1936), Cioran taught philosophy at the "Andrei Şaguna" high school in Braşov for a year. In 1937, he left for Paris with a scholarship from the French Institute of Bucharest, which was then prolonged until 1944. After a short stay in his home country (November 1940-February 1941), Cioran never returned again.
He later renounced not only his support for the Iron Guard, but also their nationalist ideas, and frequently expressed regret and repentance for his emotional implication in it. For example, in a 1972 interview, he condemned it as "a complex of movements; more than this, a demented sect and a party", and avowed: "I found out then [...] what it means to be carried by the wave without the faintest trace of conviction. [...] I am now immune to it".
In 1940, he started writing The Passionate Handbook, and finished it by 1945. It was to be the last book that he would write in Romanian, although not the last to deal with pessimism and misanthropy through delicate and lyrical aphorisms. From this point on Cioran only published books in French (all were appreciated not only because of their content, but also because of their style which was full of lyricism and fine use of the language).
In 1949 his first French book, A Short History of Decay, was published by Gallimard and was awarded the Rivarol Prize in 1950. Later on, Cioran refused every literary prize with which he was presented.
The Latin Quarter of Paris became Cioran’s permanent residence. He lived most of his life in isolation, avoiding the public. Yet, he still maintained numerous friends with which he conversed often such as Mircea Eliade, Eugène Ionesco, Paul Celan, Samuel Beckett, and Henri Michaux.
He is buried at the Montparnasse Cemetery.

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Living or just keeping the body alive?


Living or just keeping the body alive?

People don't live, most of you, you don't live,
you're just keeping the body alive.
That's not life.
You're not living until it doesn't matter a tinker's damn to you whether you live or die.
At that point you live.
When you're ready to lose your life, you live it.
But if you're protecting your life, you're dead.
If you're sitting up there in the attic and I say to you,
"Come on down!" and you say,
"Oh no, I've read about people going down stairs.
They slip and they break their necks; it's too dangerous."
Or I can't get you to cross the street because you say,
"You know how many people get run over when they cross the street?"
If I can't get you to cross a street, how can I get you to cross a continent?
And if I can't get you to peep out of your little narrow beliefs and convictions and look at another world, you're dead, you're completely dead; life has passed you by.
You're sitting in your little prison, where you're frightened;
you're going to lose your God, your religion, your friends, all kinds of things.

Awareness
Anthony de Mello

Sunday, July 10, 2011

Ono no Komachi


Selected Poems



1
Though I go to you
ceaselessly along dream paths,
the sum of those trysts
is less than a single glimpse
granted in the waking world.

2
How sad,
the end that waits me -
to think at last
I'll be a mere haze
pale green over the fields.

3
Blossoms blooming
Yet making no seed are
The sea-god's
Garlanded
Whitecaps offshore.

4
On such a night as this
When no moon lights your way to me,
I wake, my passion blazing,
My breast a fire raging, exploding flame
While within me my heart chars.

5
The flowers withered
Their color faded away
While meaninglessly
I spent my days in the world
And the long rains were falling.

6
A thing which fades
With no outward sign
Is the flower
of the heart of man
In this world!

7
Whose bloom will fade,
And yet the color does not show,
Is this alone:
In the world of love the flower
That opens in the human heart.

8
In this bay
There is no seaweed
Doesn't he know it -?
The fisherman who persists in coming
Until his legs grow weary?

9
More heart-wrenching than
To sear my body with live coals
Against my flesh,
Bidding farewell on Miyakoshima's shore
As you part for the capital.

10
Did he appear,
because I fell asleep
thinking of him?
If only I'd known I was dreaming
I'd never have wakened.

11
The autumn night
is long only in name -
We've done no more
than gaze at each other
and it's already dawn.

12
When longing for him
tortures me beyond endurance,
I reverse my robe -
Garb of night, black as leopard-flower berries -
And wear it inside out.

13
Since encountering my beloved
While I dozed,
I have begun to feel
that it is dreams, not reality,
on which I can rely.

14
Tears that but form gems on sleeves
Must come, I think,
from an insincere heart,
for mine, though I seek to repress them,
gush forth in torrents.

15
Yielding to a love
that knows no limit,
I shall go to him by night -
for the world does not yet censure
those who tread the paths of dreams.

16
I know nothing
about villages
where fisher folk dwell;
why must you keep demanding
to be shown the seashore?

17
Now that I am entering
the winter of life,
your ardor has faded
like foliage ravaged
by late autumn rains.

18
How bitter it is to see
autumnal blasts
strike the rice ears;
I shall, I fear,
reap no harvest.

19
This body
grown fragile, floating,
a reed cut from its roots...
If a stream would ask me
to follow, I'd go, I think.

20
Men call love
Is simply
a chain
preventing escape
from this world of care.

21
His heart, grown cold,
has become my body's autumn.
Many sorrowful words
may yet fall
like the rustling leaves.

22
I thought to pick
the flower of forgetting
for myself,
but I found it
already growing in his heart.

23
Those gifts you left
have become my enemies:
without them
there might have been
a moment's forgetting.

24
Submit to you -
could that be what you are saying?
The way ripples on the water
submit to an idling wing?

25
The pine tree by the rock
must have its memories too:
after a thousand years,
see how its branches
lean toward the ground.

26
The hunting lanterns
on mount Ogura have gone,
the deer are calling for their mates...
How easily I might sleep
if only I didn't share their fears.

27
Since this body
was forgotten
by the one who promised to come,
my only thought is wondering
whether it even exists.

28
This abandoned house
shining
in the mountain village -
how many nights
has autumn spent there?

29
If, in an autumn field,
a hundred flowers
can untie their streamers,
may I not also openly frolic,
as fearless of blame?

30
While watching
the long rains falling on this world
my heart, too, fades
with the unseen color
of the spring flowers.

31
Seeing the moonlight
spilling down
through these trees,
my heart fills to the brim
with autumn.

32
Upon my breast
floats a boat of heartbreak
and I have just embarked;
there's not a single day when waves
do not soak my sleeves.

Ono no Komachi
(c. 825—c. 900)

Ono no Komachi (小野小町?, c. 825—c. 900) was a famous Japanese waka poet, one of the Rokkasen—the Six best Waka poets of the early Heian period. She was noted as a rare beauty; Komachi is a symbol of a beautiful woman in Japan. She is also numbered as one of the Thirty-six Poetry Immortals.
The place of Komachi's birth and death is uncertain. According to one tradition, she was born in what is now Akita Prefecture, daughter of Yoshisada, "Lord of Dewa". Her social status is also uncertain. She may have been a low-ranking consort or a lady-in-waiting of an emperor, possibly Emperor Ninmyō (r. 833-850).
As a poet, Komachi specialized in erotic love themes, expressed in complex poems. Most of her waka are about anxiety, solitude or passionate love. She is the only female poet referred to in the preface of the Kokin Wakashū, which describes her style as "containing naivety in old style but also delicacy".
There are legends about Komachi in love. The most famous is a story about her relationship with Fukakusa no Shosho, a high-ranking courtier. Komachi promised that if he visited her continuously for a hundred nights, then she would become his lover. Fukakusa no Shosho visited her every night, but failed once towards the end. Despairing, he fell ill and subsequently died. When Komachi learned of his death she was overcome with sadness.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Life Style

Do you call this life?



All the other methods we use for self change could be compared to pushing a car.

Let's suppose you have to travel to a distant city.

The car breaks down along the way.

Well, too bad; the car's broken down.

So we roll up our sleeves and begin to push the car.

And we push and push and push and push, till we get to the distant city.

"Well," we say, "we made it."

And then we push the car all the way to another city! You say,

"We got there, didn't we?"

But do you call this life?

You know what you need?

You need an expert, you need a mechanic to lift the hood and change the spark plug.

Turn the ignition key and the car moves.

You need the expert - you need understanding, insight, awareness you don't need pushing.



Awareness

Anthony de Mello

Friday, July 1, 2011

The Wine of Love


The Wine of Love

Of the Wine of Love

quench me!

And the sorrows of my heart

will be forgotten

An Existence without love

A creek without water

Goddess with the aurora face

You are the Path of Hope

inebriate me kissing my soul!

For kisses are the Wine of soul

If you bestow lavishly

Then unite me!

Like the lovers

Or if you believe it better,

then lament me

Under the shades of Jasmine


The Lyrics of an Arabic folk poem

Thursday, June 30, 2011

The Effect of words


The Effect of words

A guru was once attempting to explain to a crowd how human beings react to words, feed on words, live on words, rather than on reality.
One of the men stood up and protested; he said, "I don't agree that words have all that much effect on us."
The guru said, "Sit down, you son of a bitch."
The man went livid with rage and said,
"You call yourself an enlightened person, a guru, a master, but you ought to be ashamed of yourself."
The guru then said, "Pardon me, sir, I was carried away.
I really beg your pardon; that was a lapse; I'm sorry."
The man finally calmed down.
Then the guru said,
"It took just a few words to get a whole tempest going within you;
and it took just a few words to calm you down, didn't it?"

How many people spend their lives not eating food but eating the menu?
A menu is only an indication of something that's available.
You want to eat the steak, not the words.
Words, words, words, words,
how imprisoning they are if they're not used properly.

Awareness
Anthony de Mello