The dauphin lived in perilous times; his crowning was delayed, perhaps in perpetuity, by the garrulous courtiers who imagined his lisped whispers to be madness — he had to chart a way back to the gardens, to air, water, and the grass of the kingdom — but where lies the way remained the query of the times.
Complaints displace misery with self-rejection.
Total pain is the maximal form of attention because nothing may mask it, nothing may distract from it, all the while pleasure and joy remain partial, uneven in their capacity to give, while pain is regal in its capacity to take.
The broken bone is preferable to a soft wound — the former is conclusive and the latter recursive.
They had all set out together, holding hands — a link — in search of a bright dandelion to press on their grayed chests, and yet, by winter, only the writhing child remained in the emptied glades.
When the Master sent neither a messenger nor a pigeon, the child heard a murmuring from the bark that was the door of his cell; it told him a new cloud had been born asking for him, waiting in eagerness.
Gratitude in bleak days is weary and reconciliatory, and in fairer seasons resplendent and vivifying.
The mother and father met with the meister one evening, and it was decided, with great care and consideration, that breaking the child’s knees was the best course of action, now that habeas corpus was to be suspended during wartime.
The child arrived at the market, his destination the shop of laments, where he was to purchase the only currency used in all of Lacrimatio: tears wrung through a brass centrifuge that determined their value by pegging them to the mineral composition of the liquid, which was strained out into its constituents of grief and joy — rain was also accepted but only to purchase food, and rain was a rather scarce commodity in the region these days, a few drops here and there caught in gold buckets by little boys.
The last grain of rice on the plate is either devoured or abandoned, obsessed over or ignored, despised or loved.
Writing excretes passio at the gallows where all reading fails.
Why laugh at someone when they say theology failed them when encrushment was the order of their days? First, one may assume their own solidity if such orders were to arrive, and second, they prima facie accept the verbal declaration of theology as equivalent to its success.
Writing is a method of reinforcing impressions of objects in the world. Take a tree: when one grazes their fingers on its bark to feel its contours — that is the second-step consequent to fixing one’s gaze on it before approach even becomes a normative possibility — to then write about one’s touch is the third and practically final, but not exclusive (an engraver also writes into stone), act of knowing: reconfiguring image and tactile input into digested schema.
Rejecting the most obvious answer is an obsession — “too simple” is an oft-abused category that presumes that a certain conception of contingent complexity is parallel to value in meaning.
Words are but an architectural feat, and their assemblage serves certain ends one desires — to build a house of words meant to barely bear the weight of thought is an act of intense violence that may be a force for good or for evil, and so is the converse — a castle of sentences, iron and stone, born from excess, may often hold so little of spirit, that it might as well have never existed.
If man were not to ask who he, this, or that is, but rather ask what there is, he would realize himself a man.
If the historian had traversed the weeds of time with the brush of a painter, aiming to illuminate expressions, expressions not facts, not with the guard of a sceptic, but with a tactile awareness concomitant with surprise and wonder, he would have found much more than mere strangeness or similitudes, he would have come upon a particular beckoning, the very hand of time that, if prodded, pulls on one and lifts them out, to see the criss-crossed map of history, layers upon layers, sedimented, dissolved, erupting — an entire ecological world, not mere words and paper.
Minimally, different languages buckle at particular joints, under particular stressors — the limits of language are made most clear not necessarily through content but form — verse is the paradigmatic case — Anglo-Germanic Romance-infused verse carries image best but tends to stutter with categories, whilst the verse in the crescentic East in its disparate manifestations makes grand civilizational abstractions fly casually like a dove — barring exceptions.
Certain contingent factors imbue supplemental tyranny into particular professional classes beyond their base essential tyranny, the latter merely a product of the relational power structures of their guild. So, lawyers or men of the militia have a temporally stable element of tyranny that one can come to expect. However, one must also consider the epochal spirit of particular moments, in which certain classes swell in their egregiousness — but how one quantifies the degree of tyranny is not particularly relevant if one is to consider that if a wave is to fall on one’s head from a sufficiently tall height, the difference in meters between the highest and the lowest possible wave does not matter in a substantive sense — at the moment, the office of the physician is one such institution that is enjoying its share of surplus tyranny, in large part due to the confluence of egoic credentialing, crude empiricism, the hubris of unchecked scientism, and market capitalism producing certain subjects that, even when professing care and its attendant ethics, is beholden to and sometimes even revels in the power it feels over not only patients, but other staff — highly unfortunate, nevertheless, their time shall pass, and they may yet be deflated back into something modest rather than technicians of the flesh — similar cases can be made for other guilds, but that of physicians has higher value stakes, and it is also of note that the internal struggles of the guild, such as the alienation of one physician in the guild, are irrelevant for the outsider because the guild enacts agentive measures to delineate itself distinct from the public, not vice versa — one must understand that ethics is not a certain inscription of propositions but rather more essentially a mode of foreclosing certain possibilities of harm, so it is a moral duty to be assessed in one’s aptitude before they are to enter a guild, and in a non-human world of perfect moral reasoning, the immoral physician would be a logical impossibility — such assessment remains an open question, to determine the elements that constitute sufficiency, but one necessity that is of note is the vital nature of the formation of the self before it has to make its decision of selecting into a guild, and then to ask for an ordered enough self also necessitates a broader cultural regime of a diffused enough ethics that often verges close to the realm of the impossible — maybe.
Schubert wrote poetry.
In the heartlands of the old days, they would cast doubt on the joyous kings of the spirit by claiming they had vast knowledge, yet no understanding — a rather base allegation of arrested development, but the aides of the kings did them no favor by claiming they were just lower down the rank of prophets of God, differentiated only in degree, not kind — that sort of unearned audacity fell well into the schemings of the petty clerks who marshaled it as evidence of gross misconduct — if only the masters had better masters and better disciples.
Certain texts contain in them immense celestial explosiveness and, hence, they can no longer be read as they engage both the mind and the body, thought and attention, coupled with practices that could never be transferred onto paper, and without an existent link between their emanation and the reader, they possess little value — this is not true for the texts conceptualized as primers.
True dreams, perceptive premonitions, the straight line to heaven — fray and thin with temporal change, which is tinged with marks of human activity — children perceive the best and this capacity, in general, fades linearly, barring exceptions where it may spike again due to a variety of material and celestial factors.
Sibelius: haunting — perturbing.
“Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit,” and with that hope man survives another day.
Intuition when claimed as grace undoes itself back to demonstrative seeing.