Well time has a way of throwing it all in your face. The past, she is haunted, the future is laced.
I asked what you love, you said, 'Anything with words.'
It is wrong to say: I think. One ought to say: I am thought. I is someone else.
We are terrible for each other, and, yes, we are a disaster. But tell me your heart doesn't race for a hurricane or a burning building. I'd rather die terrified than live forever.
A man may have lived all of his life in the gray, and the land and trees of him dark and somber. The events, the important ones, may have trooped by faceless and pale. And then-the glory-so that a cricket song sweetens his ears, the smell of the earth rises chanting to his nose, and dappling light under a tree blesses his eyes. Then a man pours outward, a torrent of him, and yet he is not diminished.
Sometimes the past seems too big for the present to hold.
Death is not the end. Death is an ocean on all sides of our lives. Deep and dark and cold, and anything but empty.
If we couldn't carry our dead inside us, we would be empty.
We know the surrealist solution: concrete irrationality, objective risk. Poetry is the conquest, the only possible conquest, of the 'supreme position', 'a certain position of the mind from where life and death, the real and the imaginary, the past and the future... cease to be perceived in a contradictory sense.'
Somewhere between the time you arrive and the time you go may lie a reason you were alive, but you'll never know.
Things begin, things decay, and you've got to find a way to be okay.
Look round and round upon this bare bleak plain, and see even here, upon a winter's day, how beautiful the shadows are! Alas! It is the nature of their kind to be so. The loveliest things in life... are but shadows; and they come and go, and change and fade away, as rapidly as these.
Sometimes fear grips me that these fragile moments of life will fade away. It seems that I write against erasure.
What if man is not really a scoundrel, man in general, I mean, the whole race of mankind-then all the rest is prejudice, simply artificial terrors and there are no barriers and it's all as it should be.
I write because it is while I'm writing that I feel most connected to why we're here. I write because silence is a heavy weight to carry. I write to remember. I write to heal. I write to let the air in. I write as a practice of listening.
Depression is like slashing at ghosts. Of course it's tempting to finally cut something real.
Never mistake a clear view for a short distance.
Creativity is the ability to identify self-imposed constraints, remove them, and explore the consequences of their removal.
Do Something Small But Useful Now.
I see the world in very fluid, contradictory, emerging, interconnected terms, and with that kind of circuitry I just don't feel the need to say what is going to happen or will not happen.
A true noun, an isolated thing, does not exit in nature. Things are only the terminal points, or rather the meeting points of actions, cross sections cut through actions, snapshots. Neither can a pure verb, an abstract motion, be possible in nature. The eye sees noun and verb as one, things in motion, motion in things.
Probe the universe in a myriad of points. ... He is a wise man who has taken many views; to whom stones and plants and animals and a myriad of objects have each suggesting something, contributed something.
The motto of science is not just Pauca but rather Plurima ex paucissimis - the most out of the least.
The human mind can appreciate the One only by seeing it first in the Many.
What is important is that complex systems, richly cross-connected internally, have complex behaviours, and that these behaviours can be goal-seeking in complex patterns.
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