SanatAlıntı
"...Sanat 'fikirlerin mutlak gücü'nün günümüze dek varlığını koruyabildiği biricik alandır. Arzuların pençesinde kıvranan bir insanın, hâlâ doyuma benzer bir şeyler yapabildiği tek yer sanattır, ve sanatsal illusion sayesinde, bu oyun, ancak gerçek bir şeyin meydana getirebileceği duygusal sonuçları aynen meydana getirir."
Sayfa 350
Görmenin görsel sanat için önemi fizyolojik görme fenomenine değil (sonuçta hayvanlar da görüyor ama sanat icra etmiyorlar), algılamaya dayanıyor; ama tabii buradaki algılama. beyinle (bilinçli ve bilinçdışı düşünceyle) ve hatta dış dünyayla ilişkiye giren bütün bir insan organizmasıyla (bedenle) bağlantı halindeki gözlerin yönetimi altındadır. 10
10 Görme ile algılama arasındaki farkın başlıca formülasyonu, Ernst H. Gombrich'in Art and Illusion adlı eserinde ortaya konur.
0-30p: Kontrollü okuyucu 📖
40-70p: Hafif bağımlı 👀
80p+: Geçmiş olsun, kitaplar seni ele geçirmiş 😅
Time isn't precious at all, because it is an illusion. What you perceive as precious is not time but the one point that is out of time: the Now. That is precious indeed. The more you are focused on time -- past and future and the more you miss the Now, the most precious thing there is.
Sayfa 72
The essential fallacy,' Ghoti picks up, 'is that humans and other biologically evolved, calculating engines feel themselves to be sentient, when sufficient investigation suggests this is not so. And that sentience, as imagined by the self-proclaimed sentient, is an illusion manufactured by a sufficiently complex series of neural interactions. A simulation, if you will.'
'On this basis, either everything of sufficient complexity is sentient, whether it feels itself to be or not, or nothing is.
Aelin
With each stroke beneath the surface, out into the darkness, she could
feel it again. Herself. Or whatever was left of it.
Aelin. She was Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius, and she was
Queen of Terrasen.
More magic rippled out, but she held her grip. Not all—not yet.
She had been captured by Maeve, tortured by her. Tortured by Cairn,
her sentinel. But she had escaped, and her mate had come for her. Had
found her, just as they had found each other despite centuries of
bloodshed and loss and war.
Aelin. She was Aelin, and this was not some illusion, but the real
world.
Aelin.
She swam out into the lake, and Rowan followed the jutting lip of
stone along the shore’s edge.
She dropped beneath the surface, letting herself sink and sink and
sink, toes grasping only open, cool water, straining for a bottom that did
not arrive.
Down into the dark, the cold.
The ancient, icy water pulled away the flame and heat and strain.
Pulled and sucked and waved it off.
Cooled that burning core of her until she took form, a blade red-hot
from the fire plunged into water.
Aelin. That’s who she was.
