Máscaras sensoriais - Lygia Clark 1967 - Conceptual Art
Sigur Rós, Kveikur
question: i’m not a sophist am i? does worrying about the potential outward appearance of pseudo-intellectuality constitute actual pseudo-intellectuality?
question: am i doing this tumblr thing wrong? should i sacrifice the burdensome quotes for just, like, pictures and witty text posts?
I know all of us are friends here because we can’t relate to anyone, but for the sake of vain catharsis, wouldn’t it be nice to relate to someone? I am so trapped in this house. If I just knew someone with a DVD collection. It is a bit much to ask for, to be in a stable universe on a watery planet a certain distance from the sun with every other luxury and privilege one can dream of at my disposal, but my sick sick mind is just bored to death. I should just relax and stop feeling so guilty about it. There’s nothing to do. It doesn’t all have to be done at once. I’m anxious to have everything immediately. It makes my free time unbearable.
Deprived, as it was, of a covering of air to act as a protective shield, the moon found itself exposed right from the start to a continual bombardment of meteorites and to the corrosive action of the sun’s rays. According to Thomas Gold, of Cornell University, the rocks on the moon’s surface were reduced to powder through constant attrition from meteorite particles. According to Gerard Kuiper, of the University of Chicago, the escape of gases from the moon’s magma may have given the satellite a light, porous consistency, like that of a pumice stone.
A philanthropic journalist says that solitude is bad for mankind; and he supports his proposition, like all unbelievers, with citations from the Church Fathers.
I know that the wilderness is a favorite haunt of the Devil and that the Spirit of lubricity is kindled in lonely places. But it is not possible that this solitude is dangerous only for those idle and vagrant souls who people it with their own passions and chimeras.
Certainly a garrulous man, whose chief pleasure in life is to declaim from pulpit or rostrum, would run the risk of becoming a raving maniac on Robinson Crusoe’s island. I do not insist on my journalist having all the virtues and the courage of Crusoe. But I do object to his directing his imputation against the lovers of solitude and mystery.
Chattering humanity is full of individuals who would face the death penalty with less horror if, from the top of the scaffold, they were permitted to make a mighty harangue with no fear of an untimely interruption from the drums of Santerre.
I do not pity them, since I feel that their oratorical effusions procure them pleasures quite equal to those which others derive from silence and self-communion; but I despise them.
All I ask of my cursed journalist is to be allowed to amuse myself in my own way. “And so,” he says with his most evangelical and nasal inflection, “you never feel the need of sharing your pleasures?” Ah, the subtle envy! He knows that I scorn his pleasures and he tries to insinuate himself into mine, the odious kill-joy!
"The greatest misfortune of not being able to be alone! …" says La Bruyère somewhere, as though to shame those who have to go into crowds to forget themselves, doubtless fearing that they could not endure themselves alone.
"Almost all out ills come from not staying in our own room," says another wise man, I believe it was Pascal, recalling from his cell of self-communion all those madmen who seek happiness in activity and in what I might call, to use the wonderful language of the day, the brotherhood of prostitution." — Charles Baudelaire — “Solitude” from Paris Spleen
"—Just, the Italian was difficult, I didn’t know all the words, but the pictures … that? that monogram, with the anchor? —Yes, Gwyon murmured catching it under his thumb, —Clement’s monogram, he was martyred, yes here, gettato a mare con un’ancora … they tied an anchor to his neck and threw him into the Black Sea.
—Yes into the sea with an anchor? like the man you told me about? The anchor caught on the tombstone, and the man coming down the rope in the celestial sea to free it, and he drowned? Listen, … But Gwyon, fearing the delirium it might forebode, hurried out of the room studying the picture of the subterranean sanctuary discovered beneath the basilica of Saint Clement of Rome, a sudden light in his eyes as though his senses were afloat with vapors from two thousand years before.”
"—Can’t you imagine that we’re fished for? Walking on the bottom of a great celestial sea, do you remember the man who came down the rope to undo the anchor caught on the tombstone?"
"—When I was sick in bed, he read to me from Otia Imperialia. The twelfth century, Gervase of Tilbury, when people could believe that our atmosphere was a celestial sea, a sea to the people who lived above it. This story was about some people coming out of church, and they saw an anchor dangling by a rope from the sky. The anchor caught in the tombstones, and then they watched and saw a man coming down the rope, to unhook it. But when he reached the earth they went over to him and he was dead … He looked up at both of them from the glass. —Dead as though he’d been drowned.”
"—Now, remember? Who was it, "gettato a mare," remember? an anchor tied to his neck? and thrown, caught by kelpies and martyred, remember? in the celestial sea. Here, maybe we’re fished for."