Iulia

“Singurătate, pulchra soror, aș vrea să-ți dau inima mea, dar tu ești inima mea, Soledad. Aș vrea să-ți dau amintirile mele, dar amintirile le avem împreună, aceleași, pentru că tu m-ai însoțit mereu. Te simțeam uneori ca o lumină răsfrântă de apele mării, mi-ai fost ceață și noapte, mi-ai fost putere. Mai ții minte desigur răsăritul acela pustiu, obosit ca un amurg. Sau după amiaza albă când moartea a încercat să-mi sfâșie inima cu gheara ei de cristal și când a biruit iubirea, lăsându-mă durerii și lumii. Ape limpezi se preling ca niște lacrimi negre pe piatra neagră a unei stânci, așa te simt uneori. Și te mai simt uneori purificată de orice întâmplări, formă pură. Soledad, mai e puțin și o să plecăm împreună, tineri cum am fost, peste vârste, mereu.”
― Petru Creţia, Norii

“Nothing in the visual field allows you to infer that it is seen by an eye.”
― Ludwig Wittgenstein

“How impossibly crude our language is! If you don’t mention the physiological correlates of emotion, you’re being false to the given facts. But if you do mention them, it sounds as though you were trying to be gross and cynical. Whether it’s passion or the desire of the moth for the star, whether it’s tenderness or adoration or romantic yearning—love is always accompanied by events in the nerve endings, the skin, the mucous membranes, the glandular and erectile tissues. Those who don’t say so are liars. Those who do are labelled as pornographers. It’s the fault, of course, of our philosophy of life; and our philosophy of life is the inevitable by-product of a language that separates in idea what in actual feet is always inseparable. It separates and at the same time it evaluates. One of the abstractions is ‘good,’ and the other is ‘bad.’ Judge not that ye be not judged. But the nature of language is such that we can’t help judging. What we need is another set of words. Words that can express the natural togetherness of things. Muco-spiritual, for example, or dermatocharity. Or why not mastonoetic? Why not viscerosophy? But translated, of course, out of the indecent obscurity of a learned language into something you could use in everyday speech or even in lyrical poetry.”
― Aldous Huxley, The Genius and the Goddess

“But isn’t that the thing you were recommending?” I asked. “Dying every moment.”

“But Henry hadn’t died. That’s the whole point. He’d merely left the clockwork running and gone somewhere else.”

“Gone where?”

“God knows. Into some kind of infantile burrow in his subconscious, I suppose. Outside, for all to see and hear, was that stupendous clockwork monkey, that undiminished blaze of intellectual power. Inside there lurked the miserable little creature who still needed flattery and reassurance and sex and a womb-substitute—the creature who would have to face the music on Henry’s death-bed. That was still frantically alive and unprepared, by any preliminary dying, totally unprepared for the decisive moment. Well, the decisive moment is over now and whatever remains of poor old Henry is probably squeaking and gibbering in the streets of Los Alamos, or maybe around the bed of his widow and her new husband. And of course nobody pays any attention, nobody gives a damn. Quite rightly. Let the dead bury their dead. And now you want to go.”
― Aldous Huxley, The Genius & The Godess