“…she says, Peter, as if the dead could be called back into new, stunned bones. The snow has started up again, whitening the path as though nothing happened. But to live like a bullet, to touch people with such intention. To be born going one way, toward everything alive. To walk into the world you never asked for and choose a place where your wanting ends—which part of war do we owe this knowledge? It’s warm in this house where we will die, you and I. Let the stanza be one room, then. Let it be big enough for everyone, even the ghosts rising now from this bread we tear open to see what we’ve made of each other. I know, we’ve been growing further apart, unhappy but half full. That clearing snow and baking bread will not fix this. I know, too, as I reach across the table to brush the leftover ice from your beard, that it’s already water. It’s nothing, you say, laughing for the first time in weeks. It’s really nothing. And I believe you. I shouldn’t, but I do.”
Sayfa 64Kitabı okudu
“Have you slain a lot of dragons?” Seth asked.
The knight patted his sword. “That I have done. More than my share. I know my trade. But it is like sending a hydra to a headsman. For every dragon I kill, a new nest is born. We had the dragons in our power. We could have destroyed them. But no, no, no. Why end the threat forever when we can shelter them and give them eons to respawn? And as their numbers grew, those who once opposed them dwindled into obscurity, training no replacements. When the dragons get free this time, there will be no protectors. The world will reel. Crops will burn. Cities will fall. Humanity will scatter and quail as merciless monsters inherit the earth.”
“You are depressed,” Seth said.
“I am called the Somber Knight,” he said.
"You know, my dear John, that I am a bit of a sybarite - a gourmet. I have always been so. I have a taste for solitary enjoyment, because in that way my enjoyment is twice -ten times- as keen. It is, like this. When I have been wrapped in a haze of golden dreams that have descended on me -when new, intoxicating, momentous thoughts have had their birth in my mind, and I have been fanned by the beat of their wings as they bore me aloft- at such mıments I have transformed them into poetry, into visions, into pictures. In general outlines, that is to say."
e-kitap olarak okuyorum.
Ode to nightingale
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,—
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees
Quora
Postmodernism is an intellectual dead end; it’s central premise seems to be derived from a saying of Nietzsche’s, “There are no facts; only interpretations”, which is thought to mean that each one of us views “reality” through our individual perspective. This is true to a degree, but as with so many aphorisms, there are limits to its validity;