Quotes Of The Day

“In a theater, it happened that a fire started offstage. The clown came out to tell the audience. They thought it was a joke and applauded. He told them again, and they became still more hilarious. This is the way, I suppose, that the world will be destroyed-amid the universal hilarity of wits and wags who think it is all a joke.”

― Søren Kierkegaard, Either/Or: A Fragment of Life

"The mass media first convinced us that the imaginary was real, and now they are convincing us that the real is imaginary; and the more reality the TV screen shows us, the more cinematic our everyday world becomes. Until as certain philosophers have insisted, we will think that we are alone in the world, and everything else is the film that God or some evil spirit is projecting before our eyes."

― Umberto Eco,  How to React to Familiar Faces

“The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and science. He to whom the emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand wrapped in awe, is as good as dead —his eyes are closed. The insight into the mystery of life, coupled though it be with fear, has also given rise to religion. To know what is impenetrable to us really exists, manifesting itself as the highest wisdom and the most radiant beauty, which our dull faculties can comprehend only in their most primitive forms—this knowledge, this feeling is at the center of true religiousness.”

― Albert Einstein, Living Philosophies

Borges - Everything And Nothing (Summary)

This is a fascinating short story by Borges. The complete story is below (in italics). It is about a man who has no true self but only emptiness within him ("There was no one in him"). He is like a dream that was dreamt by no one. Ultimately he finds satisfaction as an actor where he plays 'somebody' so that others would not discover his nobodiness. In his countless plays, he played such an endless array of characters that he seemed to exhaust all possible destinies of man. He had died innumerable deaths and loved so much and endured so much that 'he had all men inside of him' and yet he had 'no one inside of him'. He had achieved the fundamental unity of existing, dreaming and acting. For twenty years he revelled in this theatre. One day realizing the terror of being no one, he retires and settle down in his native village. When he dies, he finds himself in presence of God and asks God that he just wanted to be himself. To which the God replied, that neither am I anyone. I have dreamed the world as you dreamed your work, my Shakespeare. One of the forms in dream are you who like me are many and yet no one. You are everything and nothing.

Borges touches on his familiar themes about God, the meaning of life and living and unity and multiplicity of existences or time. The last conversation between and actor and God is opaque in its interpretation and meaning. The idea that 'one man is all men' has been repeated multiple times in Borges's stories. Here the actor is no one and he is all men. He is unable to have a singular identity, a constant and an unchanging Self. He created multiple identities to give his life an identity. He was never meant to be anyone. He via his acts affects, empathises and simulates other people. Anything human is what he can be and he can feel and choose to be any other human. He identifies with all men. He is nothing in particular and yet everything, like a infinite space that is infinitely full and yet indefinitely empty. He feels and experiences situations and circumstances similarly as men who came before him felt and faced. His actions have been acted before. His pain and joys have been felt before. Whatever we do has a likeness to what has already happened to someone else. His destiny is no different from the destiny of all men. What happens to him will happen to all the men for they share the collective experience and a collective destiny. He is nothing that has already not happened or going to happen. Same is to God which is this constant idea, a constance presence in all the forms that one sees. The forms are all His many dreams, his many creations and like Man, He is many and yet He is no one. He is a dream of forms he dreamt. Without the creation he dreamt, He is nothing. He is all things and He is none.

There was no one in him: behind his face (which even through the bad paintings of those times resembles no other) and his words, which were copious, fantastic and stormy, there was only a bit of coldness, a dream dreamt by no one. At first he thought that all people were like him, but the astonishment of a friend to whom he had begun to speak of this emptiness showed him his error and made him feel always that an individual should not differ in outward appearance.Once he thought that in books he would find a cure for his ill and thus he learned the small Latin and less Greek a contemporary would speak of; later he considered that what he sought might well be found in an element rite of humanity, and let himself be initiated by Anne Hathaway one long June afternoon. At the age of twenty-odd years he went to London. Instinctively he had already become proficient in the habit of simulating that he was someone, so that others would not discover his condition as no one; in London he found the profession to which he was predestined, that of the actor, who on a stage plays at being another before a gathering of people who play at taking him for that other person. His histrionic tasks brought him a singular satisfaction, perhaps the first he had ever known; but once the last verse had been acclaimed and the last dead man withdrawn from the stage, the hated flavor of unreality returned to him. He ceased to be Ferrex or Tamerlane and became no one again. Thus hounded, he took to imagining other heroes and other tragic fables. And so, while his flesh fulfilled its destiny as flesh in the taverns and brothels of London, the soul that inhabited him was Caesar, who disregards the augur's admonition, and Juliet, who abhors the lark, and Macbeth, who converses on the plain with the witches who are also Fates. No one has ever been so many men as this man, who like the Egyptian Proteus could exhaust all the guises of reality. At times he would leave a confession hidden away in some corner of his work, certain that it would not be deciphered; Richard affirms that in his person he plays the part of many and lago claims with curious words "I am not what I am," The fundamental identity of existing, dreaming and acting inspired famous passages of his.  

For twenty years he persisted in that controlled hallucination, but one morning he was suddenly gripped by the tedium and the terror of being so many kings who die by the sword and so many suffering lovers who converge, diverge and melodiously expire. That very day he arranged to sell his theater. Within a week he had returned to his native village, where he recovered the trees and rivers of his childhood and did not relate them to the others his muse had celebrated, illustrious with mythological allusions and Latin terms. He had to be someone; he was a retired impresario who had made his fortune and concerned himself with loans, lawsuits and petty usury. It was in this character that he dictated the arid will and testament known to us, from which he deliberately excluded all traces of pathos or literature. His friends from London would visit his retreat and for them he would take up again his role as poet.  

History adds that before or after dying he found himself in the presence of God and told Him: "I who have been so many men in vain want to be one and myself." The voice of the Lord answered from a whirlwind: "Neither am I anyone; I have dreamt the world as you dreamt your work, my Shakespeare, and among the forms in my dream are you, who like myself are many and no one." -- By Jorge Luis Borges (Translated by James E. Irby)

Thought Of The Day

For those who know Kierkegaard, this BBC documentary is an exemplary take on the times and lives of this brilliant philosopher.

 

"Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards."



"Once you label me you negate me."

Beckett : Waiting for Godot (Summary)

This had been a long pending read for me. And it wasn't such a long read. Probably more thoughtful though. A very classic example of "Theater of The Absurd". It is the story about two characters (Vladimir and Estragon) waiting for a person named Godot to show up. Their wait is endless without getting tired only to be interjected with their talking, sleeping, entertaining, reminiscing and yet more waiting. Most of the time they end up doing nothing, most of their actions itself are of no importance and that is the recurring theme in the play.

The play itself is divided into 2 acts that are happen over two days. The general tone of their actions over these two days repeats itself loosely. The settings are the same. The people they meet are the same. The day starts with both struggling to sort themselves out and the day end with the realization that Godot is not going to come today and they will wait for him tomorrow at the same place. The realization of time is not distinct here. Probably its even not important. What matters is that they exist and they have spare time at hand. These two days are separated over time for we see the colors of tree change over these two acts. So it appears the two are waiting for Godot probably for a long time and will wait for him endlessly. Time is non-linear as well as periodic. It will repeat. All of us are trapped in it, with no chance of escape. The only escape is the realization of the meaningless of the existence and silently accepting it. As they say it "Nothing to be done", it is exactly Nothing that has to be done. All we have to do is to pass the time, doing something to keep ourselves engaged. All this philosophizing, fighting, writing ect is just distractions in human life to make sure we do not have time to understand that "Nothing to be done". All this waiting for Godot and not really sure what we are waiting for and what it will bring? That is the human condition, busy in distractions and meaningless antics waiting for something and trying to avoid the realization that life itself is pointless.

The complete books fails to fit into a pattern, a clear understanding of it. Time does not move linearly and sub plots also look disjointed over the two acts. Actions happen arbitrarily and characters do not recall what happened the other day. The idea being Universe is chaotic and lacks an order and sequence. Time is disordered and so will be life. But the bigger picture is still the same. Even midst of this great chaos, the human nature will adjust and find something to keep itself occupied and busy and wait for Godot to show up. The purpose (or the lack of it) keeps us busy in passing our time here. We develop a pattern, a semblance of sanity to keep the horror of pointless life away. To keep up with the charade, but then is their a Choice? As they said "Nothing to be done"

Thoreau : Walden (Summary)

I completed reading Walden some time back and had been thinking of writing a broad take on the book. Surely it took a long time coming, but not as long as it took to write the book. It is said Thoreau took nearly ten years to complete this book and it come out very well in the end I think. Read more posts on Thoreau's Walden.

Thoreau wrote his observations while living alone besides a pond (called Walden) over a period of nearly two years. As living alone Thoreau dwelt on problems that every living soul has to dwell with. The very basic problem of food, of clothing, of roof over the head and how to keep oneself engaged in spare time. The book is a reflections on these very primal needs. In doing so he contemplates over the interactions each of these needs have with the environment around him. In a sense, it is account of human nature and human and nature. The nature here being inherently beautiful, wholesome and observant. The woods, the pond, the weather, the ice are there for  all. It is up to each observer as to define his relationship with these. For some these are just there, for some these are the very essence of life. Thoreau in his book observes nature (the ponds, the fields) not as something to be used, but something to be inspired of. The book is not a survival guide or a farmer's almanac nor an experiment and not even philosophy. It is just living. The experiences of living simply and in harmony with everything around. The wholesome nature providing everything that is needed and still there is enough more for everyone needs. Thoreau shows everything that nature does is beautiful and caring. Even the food rotting would be helpful for insects for they also own this earth besides the man. The author also states that he is never alone in the woods. There is this great song that nature plays but for only those who have the ears to listen to it. Even a great battle between red and black ants in the forest have visions of epic valour. The drama of life around him keep him busy. I can't help but recall Nietzsche's words

"And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music." 

on reading the book. A unfettered and observant mind has so much to learn from nature and from the efforts one makes to meet his needs. When one pushes living to the lowest terms, to the most basic needs it is then one realizes as Thoreau says the "marrow of life". Living simple and yet thinking high. Not to be bogged down by the struggles of daily life or meaningless inconsequential or luxuries, but sometimes stop and think and think deep. Sometimes until we are not lost, we will not find the true path home. Sometimes until we step back and look again, we won't realize the true nature of the problem. Sometimes until we live simple, we won't realize the complex and infinite extent of our relationship with the nature around us. As Thoreau says

"What should we think of the shepherd’s life if his flocks always wandered to higher pastures than his thoughts?"

Some might say the book is a criticism to modern life. It is not a throwback to old times. These are just observations and they are personal. Each reader has to find his/her own truth from this. It is not rejection of the material comfort. It is rejection of immersing oneself in material pursuits to such extents that one has not time for greater thoughts. And in finding it, we must break new frontiers like Columbus opening new channels of thought. Explore yourself, open your eyes and arms and grasp this infinite the secret of life through nature. Work hard. Think high. Be self reliant. Live simple. Explore thyself!

Albert Camus : The Stranger (Summary)

I just finished reading Albert Camus's "The Stranger". A short book, but no less depressing. The story is simple to read, but the narrative is not that forthcoming. The story starts with news that the mother of the protagonist has died and he would have to take some time off for the wake. There is no hint of grief or remorse in him, instead he seemed distant. It's not as if he is indifferent, he is very aware of the surrounding like the detail with which he describes the heat, the people at funeral. He is also not a recluse either as the very next day he is seen flirting with his on and off girlfriend and going to a movie together. Later in the story, he gets involved with some Arabs and end up killing one. He is arrested and the later half of the story revolves around his trial and his abject resignation. The focus of the trial is not the killing, but the emotional detachment the protagonist displays.(not that it would have mattered). He treats the killing of another person trivially. It's not that he is an outlaw (the killing just happened), it just that what has happened has happened and any amount of remorse is not going to make amends. The protagonist is not guided by morality, not by what people think or what social mores are. He instead is guided by his actions and decisions and he stands by it however wrong. He is not willing to look back and ponder for he believes in present. He does not let his fantasies roam with thoughts of religion or remorse. He sees things as they are. He believes in what he can see and feels. Anything that does not happen while he is on the face of earth does not matter him. He is not hopeless (for he does not believe in one), instead he believes that these hopes weigh a person down. He is aware of the absurdity of his meaningless life and does not try to reason or make amends. He exists as he IS, not trying anything more, nor trying anything less. At the very end he rejects God and reconciles to death not because of any guilt, but because everyone is going to get one sooner or later. He thinks when it is all over, he would be glad that it's over. He is the stranger, stranger to everything other than what his senses sense.

Excerpts from James Joyce : So What Is Beauty?

"But what is beauty?" asked Lynch

Stephen said "Plato, I believe, said that beauty is the splendor of truth. I don't think that it has a meaning, but the true and the beautiful are akin. Truth is beheld by the intellect which is appeased by the most satisfying relations of the intelligible; beauty is beheld by the imagination which is appeased by the most satisfying relations of the sensible. The first step in the direction of truth is to understand the frame and scope of the intellect itself, to comprehend the act itself of intellection. Aristotle's entire system of philosophy rests upon his book of psychology and that, I think, rests on his statement that the same attribute cannot at the same time and in the same connexion belong to and not belong to the same subject. The first step in the direction of beauty is to understand the frame and scope of the imagination, to comprehend the act itself of esthetic apprehension.To finish what I was saying about beauty, the most satisfying relations of the sensible must therefore correspond to the necessary phases of artistic apprehension. Find these and you find the qualities of universal beauty. Aquinas says: AD PULCRITUDINEM TRIA
REQUIRUNTUR INTEGRITAS, CONSONANTIA, CLARITAS. I translate it so: THREE THINGS ARE NEEDED FOR BEAUTY, WHOLENESS, HARMONY, AND RADIANCE."

"Look at that basket" Stephen said.

In order to see that basket, said Stephen, your mind first of all separates the basket from the rest of the visible universe which is not the basket. The first phase of apprehension is a bounding line drawn about the object to be apprehended. An esthetic image is presented to us either in space or in time. What is audible is presented in time, what is visible is presented in space. But, temporal or spatial, the esthetic image is first luminously apprehended as selfbounded and selfcontained upon the immeasurable background of space or time which is not it. You apprehended it as ONE thing. You see it as one whole. You apprehend its wholeness. That is INTEGRITAS.

Then, said Stephen, you pass from point to point, led by its formal lines; you apprehend it as balanced part against part within its limits; you feel the rhythm of its structure. In other words, the synthesis of immediate perception is followed by the analysis of apprehension. Having first felt that it is ONE thing you feel now that it is a THING. You apprehend it as complex, multiple, divisible, separable, made up of its parts, the result of its parts and their sum, harmonious. That is CONSONANTIA.

"And what is CLARITAS" said Lynch wittily.

The connotation of the word, Stephen said, is rather vague. Aquinas uses a term which seems to be inexact. It baffled me for a long time. It would lead you to believe that he had in mind symbolism or idealism, the supreme quality of beauty being a light from some other world, the idea of which the matter is but the shadow, the reality of which it is but the symbol. I thought he might mean that CLARITAS is the artistic discovery and representation of the divine purpose in anything or a force of generalization which would make the esthetic image a universal one, make it outshine its proper conditions. But that is literary talk. I understand it so. When you have apprehended that basket as one thing and have then analyzed it according to its form and apprehended it as a thing you make the only synthesis which is logically and esthetically permissible. You see that it is that thing which it is and no other thing. The radiance of which he speaks in the scholastic QUIDDITAS, the WHATNESS of a thing. This supreme quality is felt by the artist when the esthetic image is first conceived in his imagination. The mind in that mysterious instant Shelley likened beautifully to a fading coal. The instant wherein that supreme quality of beauty, the clear radiance of the esthetic image, is apprehended luminously by the mind which has been arrested by its wholeness and fascinated by its harmony is the luminous silent stasis of esthetic pleasure, a spiritual state very like to that cardiac condition which the Italian physiologist Luigi Galvani, using a phrase almost as beautiful as Shelley's, called the enchantment of the heart.

What I have said, he began again, refers to beauty in the wider sense of the word, in the sense which the word has in the literary tradition. In the marketplace it has another sense. When we speak of beauty in the second sense of the term our judgement is influenced in the first place by the art itself and by the form of that art. The image, it is clear, must be set between the mind or senses of the artist himself and the mind or senses of others. If you bear this in memory you will see that art necessarily divides itself into three forms progressing from one to the next. These forms are: the lyrical form, the form wherein the artist presents his image in immediate relation to himself; the epical form, the form wherein he presents his image in mediate relation to himself and to others; the dramatic form, the form wherein he presents his image in immediate relation to others.

---Excerpts taken from James Joyce's "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man". Highly recommended read.