Post a random quote from a book you're reading
"For how can a man stand, unless he has something sure under his feet? Can a man tread the unstable water all his life and call that standing? Better give in and drown at once. Upon what could he stand, save upon a woman? Was he then like the old man of the seas, impotent to move save upon the back of another life? Was he impotent, or a cripple, or a defective, or a fragment? It was black, mad, shameful torture, the frenzy of fear, the frenzy of desire, and the horrible, gasping back-wash of regret".
The Rainbow, DH Lawrence (Oxford World's Classics, 1915)
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And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.
Not from a book but important
https://www.huffingtonpost.ca/arash-sha ... _23200391/
I loved the part in To Kill A Mocking Bird when Calpurnia put Scout in her place for being rude to Walter Cunningham about the way he ate his food with molasses.
"There's some folks who don't eat like us, but you ain't called on to contradict 'em at the table when they don't. That boy's yo' comp'ny and if he wants to eat up the table cloth you let him, you hear?"
And
"Hush your mouth! Don't matter who they are, anybody sets foot in this house's yo' comp'ny, and don't you let me catch you remarkin' on their ways like you was so high and mighty! Yo' folks might be better'n the Cunninghams but it don't count for nothin' the way you're disgracin' 'em---if you can't act fit to eat at the table you can just set here and eat in the kitchen!"
How do you respond to that other than by saying "Yes Ma'am"?
[**Not from a book**]
Ajaan Suwat’s gentle reply has stayed with me ever since: “If there were a god who could arrange that by my taking a mouthful of food all the beings in the world would become full, I’d bow down to that god. But I haven’t found anyone like that yet.”
"She was nearly sixteen years old, a slim, smouldering girl, deeply reticent, yet lapsing into unreserved expansiveness now and then, when she seemed to give her whole soul but when in fact she only made another counterfeit of her soul for outward presentation. She was sensitive in the extreme, always tortured, always affecting a callous indifference to screen herself".
The Rainbow, DH Lawrence (Oxford World's Classics, 1915)
Sound familiar, Aspie women?
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And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.
You may have heard that Buddha denied the existence of the self. Let's be clear: Buddha never denied that we experience the world and out lives through a sense of self. This self matters and needs attention. What Buddha denied was the enduring nature of this self: it is not eternal. Our selves arise and they pass away; and in fact, even while they exist, they only do so in relationship with others.
--'What would Buddha do at work?: 101 answers to workplace dilemmas' by Franz Metcalf & BJ Gallagher Hateley.
I'm officially speechless :
I lay and cried, and began to feel again, to admit I was human, vulnerable, sensitive. I began to remember how it had been before, how there was that germ of positive creativeness. Character is fate, and damn! I'd better work on my character! I had been withdrawing into a retreat of numbness: it is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch one. But, my honest self revolted at this, hated me for doing this. Sick with conflict and destructive negative emotions, frozen into disintegration, I was refusing to articulate, to spew forth these emotions -- they festered in me, growing big, distorted, like pus-bloated sores. Small problems, mentions of someone else's felicity, evidence of someone else's talents, frightened me, making me react hollowly, fighting jealousy, envy, hate. I was feeling myself fall apart, decay, rot, the laurels wither and fall away, and my past sins and omissions strike me with full punishment and import. All this, all this foul, gangrenous sludge, ate away at my insides. Silent, insidious.
Plath, Sylvia, and Karen V. Kukil. The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, 1950-1962. New York: Anchor Books, 2000
_________________
And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.
I lay and cried, and began to feel again, to admit I was human, vulnerable, sensitive. I began to remember how it had been before, how there was that germ of positive creativeness. Character is fate, and damn! I'd better work on my character! I had been withdrawing into a retreat of numbness: it is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch one. But, my honest self revolted at this, hated me for doing this. Sick with conflict and destructive negative emotions, frozen into disintegration, I was refusing to articulate, to spew forth these emotions -- they festered in me, growing big, distorted, like pus-bloated sores. Small problems, mentions of someone else's felicity, evidence of someone else's talents, frightened me, making me react hollowly, fighting jealousy, envy, hate. I was feeling myself fall apart, decay, rot, the laurels wither and fall away, and my past sins and omissions strike me with full punishment and import. All this, all this foul, gangrenous sludge, ate away at my insides. Silent, insidious.
Plath, Sylvia, and Karen V. Kukil. The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, 1950-1962. New York: Anchor Books, 2000
Wow what clear articulation.
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Not a Moderator.
AQ 40
ASD-1
I lay and cried, and began to feel again, to admit I was human, vulnerable, sensitive. I began to remember how it had been before, how there was that germ of positive creativeness. Character is fate, and damn! I'd better work on my character! I had been withdrawing into a retreat of numbness: it is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch one. But, my honest self revolted at this, hated me for doing this. Sick with conflict and destructive negative emotions, frozen into disintegration, I was refusing to articulate, to spew forth these emotions -- they festered in me, growing big, distorted, like pus-bloated sores. Small problems, mentions of someone else's felicity, evidence of someone else's talents, frightened me, making me react hollowly, fighting jealousy, envy, hate. I was feeling myself fall apart, decay, rot, the laurels wither and fall away, and my past sins and omissions strike me with full punishment and import. All this, all this foul, gangrenous sludge, ate away at my insides. Silent, insidious.
Plath, Sylvia, and Karen V. Kukil. The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, 1950-1962. New York: Anchor Books, 2000
Wow what clear articulation.
That's my mutism in a nutshell.
_________________
And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.
The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoevsky.
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