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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