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“The meaning of the word "trauma," in its Greek origin is "wound." Whether we realize it or not, it is out woundedness, or how we cope with it, that dictates much of our behavior, shapes our social habits, and informs out ways of thinking about the world. It can even determine whether or not we are capable or rational thought at all in matters of the greatest importance to our lives.”
― The Myth of Normal: Trauma, Illness, and Healing in a Toxic Culture
― The Myth of Normal: Trauma, Illness, and Healing in a Toxic Culture
“Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster.”
― The Gift of Fear: Survival Signals That Protect Us from Violence
― The Gift of Fear: Survival Signals That Protect Us from Violence
“Never worry about being obsessive. I like obsessive people. Obsessive people make great art.”
―
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“Not everything that is faced can be changed,” James Baldwin wrote, “but nothing can be changed until it is faced.”
― The Myth of Normal: Trauma, Illness, and Healing in a Toxic Culture
― The Myth of Normal: Trauma, Illness, and Healing in a Toxic Culture
“Funeral Blues
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.”
― Another Time
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.”
― Another Time
oneda’s 2025 Year in Books
Take a look at oneda’s Year in Books, including some fun facts about their reading.
363 books
|
920 friends
88 books
|
7 friends
765 books
|
223 friends
358 books
|
178 friends
209 books
|
109 friends
251 books
|
20 friends
586 books
|
37 friends
834 books
|
136 friends
More friends…
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