Visits of Truth
His own description of the purpose of the Journals is perhaps as revealing as any. He advised scholars to keep a journal and in it to “pay so muh honor to the visits of Truth to your mind as to record them.”
Introduction
Prens Canute
I will create a worldly paradise in this land. A place of peace and prosperity. An ideal country for those who live in suffering... Perhaps the work will not be finished in my generation but I will be the one to take that first bold step. God will surely call me to his side with love. And when that time comes, I will say to him "We no longer need heaven or your trials. We have our paradise on earth."
"Perhaps the clearest and most certain thing that can be said about postmodernism is that it is a very unclear and very much contested concept. Celebrated by some as a new wave of emancipation from the stifling constraints of modern ideologies that have grown stagnantly conservative and elitist, postmodernism is conversely con- demned for confining us in its own prison-house of conservatism for encouraging an attitude of slackening by its scepticism regarding the notions of progress and originality, by its advocacy of appropriation and recycling, and by its ideology of the end of ideology. But the controversy over postmodernism goes well beyond the question of its value. Its very meaning, scope, and character are so vague, ambiguous, and deeply contested that it has been challenged as a pernicious, illegitimate non concept. Advocates reply that the concept's very vagueness usefully challenges the view that concepts must be clear to be meaningful, fruitful, and important.
How exactly we determine the legitimacy of a concept is a fascinating question in itself. Is conceptual legitimacy a matter of logical coherence, reference to the real, entrenched usage, practical utility? In any case, the concept of postmodernism seems, for the moment, to be adequately vindicated by the profusion of scholarly work that is dedicated to its clarification and elaboration in the various arts and other forms of cultural production since the latter part of the twentieth century."
What a relief it would be to know that at the end of this life there was a better one, that perhaps upon death you might enjoy the comforts you had always been denied instead of fading away from an indifferent universe. What a relief to know that the world was supposed to make sense, and that if it didn’t, you would one day be justly compensated.
BİR SEN EKSİKTİN ALLAH ÇARPSIN BİR SEN EKSİKTİN
"You may remember me? Well, perhaps you may not. My name is Newson."
Sayfa 82Kitabı okuyor
Çalmadığı bir bedenim kaldı diyor, adamı da diyor ki satsan onu da alır :D
"And you know that fellow who bought all the furniturw! He was buying for Farfrae, it seems!"
"My furniture too! Why he'll have my body next!"
"Perhaps he will, if you're ready to sell."
Sayfa 67Kitabı okuyor
"In the mansion called literature I would have the eaves deep and the walls dark, I would push back into the shadows the things that come forward too clearly, I would strip away the useless decoration. I do not ask that this be done everywhere, but perhaps we may be allowed at least one mansion where we can turn off the electric lights and see what it is like without them."
Cuniçiro Tanizaki
"Perhaps it is good to have a beautiful mind, but an even greater gift is to discover a beautiful heart."
|John Nash
I have become something wonderful, she thought. I have become something terrible.
Was she now a goddess or a monster?
Perhaps neither. Perhaps both.
No one came to save me.
The police never came.
Earl, Cecelia, and Cliff never barged in, knocking down iron bars to set me free. My family never burst through the stone wall of my cell to get me out.
I never rose up in a sterile hospital bed to find my family surrounding me.
Deep in the marrow of my bones—something instilled in me since I was a child—assured me that someone would come and save me. That some type of guardians would come to help me, the police or firemen, the army or the FBI, perhaps a hidden sector of the government that I had never heard of before.
Someonewould show up to help me.
A familiar face would suddenly arrive and draw me into a firm hug. My nose would fill with scents of comfort and safety from being smashed against their shoulder hastily. They would wipe my tears and tell me everything would be okay, that I would be safe. They would squeeze me tightly. The very moment their arms circled me, the tension would wane from my muscles because I would know that I was safe and that they would take care of me—that no one else could hurt me.
But no one ever came.
I have become something wonderful, she thought. I have become something terrible.
Was she now a goddess or a monster?
Perhaps neither. Perhaps both.
Jiang moved through the world like he didn’t belong there.
He acted like the rules of the nature did not apply to him.
Perhaps they didn’t.
Endgame / Samuel Beckett
In my house.
One day you'll be blind like me. You'll be sitting
here, a speck in the void, in the dark, forever, like me.
One day you'll say to yourself, I'm tired, I'll sit down, and you'll go and sit down. Then you'll say, I'm hungry, I'll get up and get something to eat. But you won't get up. You'll say, I shouldn't have sat down, but since I have I'll sit on a little longer, then I'll get up and get something to eat. But you won't get up and you won't get anything to eat.
You'll look at the wall a while, then you'll say, I'll close my eyes, perhaps have a little sleep, after that I'll feel better, and you'll close them. And when you open them again there'll be no wall any more.
Infinite emptiness will be all around you, all the resurrected dead of all the ages wouldn't fill it, and there you’ll be like a little bit of grit in the middle of the steppe. Yes, one day you’ll know what is it, you’ll be like me, expect that you won’t have anyone with you, because you won’t have had on anyone and because there won’t be anyone left to have pitty on you.