Everyone, at some point in their lives, wakes up in the middle of the night with the feeling that they are all alone in the world, and that nobody loves them now and that nobody will ever love them, and that they will never have a decent night’s sleep again and will spend their lives wandering blearily around a loveless landscape, hoping desperately that their circumstances will improve, but suspecting, in their heart of hearts, that they will remain unloved forever. The best thing to do in these circumstances is to wake somebody else up, so that they can feel this way, too.
What is it about us human beings that we can’t let go of lost things?
““Mystery has its own mysteries, and there are gods above gods. We have ours, they have theirs. That is what’s known as infinity.”―Jean Cocteau
Most of the laugh tracks on television were recorded in the early 1950’s. These days, most of the people you hear laughing are dead.
Why it is so hard to be serious, so easy to be too serious?
My fear is my substance, and probably the best part of me.
“The touch of an infinite mystery passes over the trivial and the familiar, making it break out into ineffable music… The trees, the stars, and the blue hills ache with a meaning which can never be uttered in words.”
— Rabindranath Tagore
… for here there is no place
that does not see you. You must change your life.
Nothing, like something, happens anywhere.
“Who writes the great books? It isn’t we who sign our names. What is an artist? He’s a man who has antennae, who knows how to hook up to the currents which are in the atmosphere, in the cosmos; he merely has the facility for hooking on, as it were. Who is original? Everything that we are doing, everything that we think, exists already, and we are only intermediaries, that’s all, who make use of what is in the air. Why do ideas, why do great scientific discoveries often occur in different parts of the world at the same time? The same is true of the elements that go to make up a poem or a great novel or any work of art. They are already in the air, they have not been given voice, that’s all. They need the man, the interpreter, to bring them forth.”
Photo Credit Henri Cartier-Bresson
Thanks to theparisreview.
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