“When you love someone truly love them, friend or lover, you lay your heart open to them. You give them a part of yourself that you give to no one else, and you let them inside a part of you that only they can hurt you literally hand them the razor with a map of where to cut deepest and most painfully on your heart and soul.”
A beautiful person, among the Greeks, was thought to betray by this sign some secret favor of the immortal gods: and we can pardon pride, when a woman possesses such a figure, that wherever she stands, or moves, or leaves a shadow on the wall, or sits for a portrait to the artist, she confers a favor on the world.
And yet—it is not beauty that inspires the deepest passion.
Beauty without grace is the hook without the bait.
Beauty, without expression, tires.
Abbé Ménage said of President Le Bailleul, “that he was fit for nothing but to sit for his portrait.” A
Greek epigram intimates that the force of love is not shown by the courting of beauty, but when the like desire is inflamed for one who is ill-favored.
And petulant old gentlemen, who have chanced to suffer some intolerable weariness from pretty people, or who have seen cut flowers to some profusion, or who see, after a world of pains have been successfully taken for the costume, how the least mistake in sentiment takes all the beauty out of your clothes,—affirm, that the secret of ugliness consists not in irregularity, but in being uninteresting.
I have noticed a block of spermaceti lying about closets and mantel-pieces, for twenty years together, simply because the tallow-man gave it the form of a rabbit; and, I suppose, it may continue to be lugged about unchanged for a century.
Let an artist scrawl a few lines or figures on the back of a letter, and that scrap of paper is rescued from danger, is put in portfolio, is framed and glazed, and, in proportion to the beauty of the lines drawn, will be kept for centuries.
Burns writes a copy of verses, and sends them to a newspaper, and the human race take charge of them that they shall not perish.
The motive of science was the extension of man, on all sides, into Nature, till his hands should touch the stars, his eyes see through the earth, his ears understand the language of beast and bird, and the sense of the wind; and, through his sympathy, heaven and earth should talk with him.
But that is not our science.
These geologies, chemistries, and astronomies, seem to make wise, but they leave us where they found us.
The invention is of use to the inventor but is questionable help to any other.
The formulas of science are like the papers in your pocketbook, of no value to any but the owner.
Science in England, in America, is jealous of theory and hates the name of love and moral purpose.
There’s revenge for this inhumanity.
What manner of man does science make?
The boy is not attracted.
He says I do not wish to be such a kind of man as my professor is.
The collector has dried all the plants in his herbal, but he has lost weight and humor.
He has got all snakes and lizards in his vials, but science has done for him also and has put the man into a bottle.
Our reliance on the physician is a kind of despair.
The clergy has bronchitis, which does not seem a certificate of spiritual health.
Macready thought it came from the falsetto of their voicing.
An Indian prince,
Tissue, one day riding in the forest, saw a herd of elk sporting. “See how happy,” he said, “these browsing elks are!
Why should not priests, lodged and fed comfortably in the temples, also amuse themselves?”
Returning home, he imparted this reflection to the king.
The king, on the next day, conferred the sovereignty on him, saying, “Prince, administer this empire for seven days: at the termination of that period, I shall put thee to death.”
At the end of the seventh day, the king inquired,
“From what cause hast thou become so emaciated?
“From the horror of death.” The monarch rejoined:
“Live, my child, and be wise. Thou hast ceased to take recreation, saying to thyself, in seven days I shall be put to death.”
These priests in the temple incessantly meditate on death; how can they enter into healthful diversions?
” But the men of science or the doctors or the clergy are not victims of their pursuits, more than others.
The miller, the lawyer, and the merchant dedicate themselves to their details and do not come out as men of more force.
Have they divination, grand aims, the hospitality of soul, and the equality to any event, which we demand in man, or only the reactions of the mill, of the wares, of the chicane?
EDITOR: All the education in the world without application makes a ” blasted fool” my Father was always correct. Today as I look back I smile 😁 you see I was a ” Seeker of Knowledge” all those Degrees hanging on my walls are long gone in the tip. 😁 Moral to the story: Dance Naked in the Rain 🌂
We are all made up of many different aspects and traits, making each of us unique and beautiful like no other.⚜️
Human beings are multidimensional creatures. Our identity is made up of the total of our many traits and values and our character. Each of us possesses within us many different selves. There is the adult part of ourselves and the childlike spirit that resides in each one of us. There is our masculine side and our feminine side. In us, there is the hard worker, the artist, the parent, and the caretaker. All of these selves combined to form a well-rounded, complex person. Not all of these different aspects of who we blend easily with each other, however, and some of them may even conflict with or oppose one another. When a person’s different parts clash, such as the self that is our childlike aspect and the self that is our responsible adult, we often end up compartmentalizing or suppressing one of these aspects to ease the conflict. While this may make us feel better in the short run, we would be better off finding a way for these two selves to coexist peacefully inside us.⚜️
Though some of our selves may be dominant while others rarely assert themselves, attempts to suppress one or more of these different aspects can leave us feeling that our identity has been splintered. Being able to successfully integrate our various selves can be as simple as accepting and embracing each one. It may also be necessary to reframe the way you see them. The immature self that you ridicule can become a valued and accepted part of you when redefined as your more playful aspect. Journaling can help you acknowledge and understand the different parts that make up your identity.⚜️
When your many selves blend together to form an integrated individual, you will feel changed. You will no longer feel pulled in multiple directions, and you will never again have to deny any part of yourself. You become a complete person — familiar and comfortable with the many selves that make up the person you are.⚜️
✨ Watch out for power, for its avalanche can bury you, snow, snow, snow, smothering your mountain.
✨ Watch out for hate, it can open its mouth, and you’ll fling yourself out to eat off your leg, an instant leper.
✨ Watch out for friends because when you betray them, as you will, they will bury their heads in the toilet and flush themselves away.
✨ Watch out for intellect because it knows so much; it knows nothing and leaves you hanging upside down, mouthing knowledge as your heart falls out of your mouth.
✨ Watch out for games, the actor’s part, the speech planned, known, given, for they will give you away and stand like a naked little boy, pissing on your child-bed.
✨ Watch out for love (unless it is accurate, and every part of you saysyes, including the toes), it will wrap you up like a mummy, and your scream won’t be heard, and none of your runnings will end.
✨ Love? Be it, man. Be it, woman. It must be a wave you want to glide in on, give your body to it, give your laugh to it, give, when the gravelly sand takes you, your tears to the land. Love another is something like prayer and can’t be planned; you fall into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
✨ Particular person, if I were you, I’d pay no attention to admonitions from me, made somewhat out of your words and somewhat out of mine—a collaboration.
I do not believe a word I have said, except some, except I think of you like a young tree with pasted-on leaves and know you’ll root and the real green thing will come. Let go. Let go.
✨ Oh, particular person, possible leaves, this typewriter likes you on the way to them but wants to break crystal glasses in celebration, for you, when the dark crust is thrown off, and you float all around like a happened balloon. 😁