"I wondered vaguely what I might do myself to make men realize what great happiness lies in store for all of us. I sent out a benediction in every dir"I wondered vaguely what I might do myself to make men realize what great happiness lies in store for all of us. I sent out a benediction in every direction- to old and young, to the neglected savages in the forgotten parts of the earth, to wild as well as domesticated animals, to the birds of the air, to creeping things, to trees and plants and flowers, to rocks and lakes and mountains. This is the first day of my life, said I to myself, that I have included everybody and everything on this earth in one thought. I bless the world, every inch of it, every living atom, and it is all alive, breathing like myself, and conscious through and through."
One of the basic human requirements is the need to dwell, and one of the central human acts is the act of inhabiting, of connecting ourselves, howeverOne of the basic human requirements is the need to dwell, and one of the central human acts is the act of inhabiting, of connecting ourselves, however temporarily, with a place on the planet which belongs to us and to which we belong. This is not, especially in the tumultuous present, an easy act (is attested by the uninhibited and uninhabitable no-places in cities everywhere), and it requires help: we need allies in inhabitation.
Fortunately, we have at hand many allies, if only we call on them; other upright objects, from towers to chimneys to columns, stand in for us in sympathetic imitation of our own upright stance. Flowers and gardens serve as testimonials to our own care, and breezes loosely captures can connect us with the very edge of the infinite.
- from Charles Moores introduction for "In Praise of Shadows" by Junichiro Tanizaki
In temple architecture the main room stands at a considerable distance from the garden; so dilute is the light there that no matter what the season, on fair days or cloudy, morning, midday, or evening, the pale, white glow scarcely varies. And the shadows at the interstices of the ribs seem strangely immobile, as if dust collected in the corners had become a part of the paper itself. I blink in uncertainty at this dreamlike luminescence, feeling as though some misty film were blunting my vision. The light from the pale white paper, powerless to dispel the heavy darkness of the alcove, is instead repelled by the darkness, creating a world of confusion where dark and light are indistinguishable. Have not you yourselves sensed a difference in the light that suffices such a room, a rare tranquility not found in ordinary light? Have you never felt a sort of fear in the face of the ageless, a fear that in that room you might lose all consciousness of the passage of time, that untold years might pass and upon emerging you should find you had grown old and grey?
I am aware of and am most grateful for the benefits of the age. No matter what complaints we may have, Japan has chosen to follow the West, and there is nothing for her to do but move bravely ahead and leave us old ones behind.... I have written all this because I have thought that there might still be somewhere, possibly in literature or the arts, where something could be saved. I would call back at least for literature this world of shadows we are losing. In the mansion called literature I would have the eaves deep and the walls dark, I would push back into the shadows the things that come forward too clearly, I would strip away the useless decoration. I do not ask that this be done everywhere, but perhaps we may be allowed at least one mansion where we can turn off the electric lights and see what it is like without them.
John Anderson, my jo, John, When we were first acquent; Your locks were like the raven, Your bonie brow was brent; But now your brJohn Anderson, My Jo
John Anderson, my jo, John, When we were first acquent; Your locks were like the raven, Your bonie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; And mony a cantie day, John, We've had wi'ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, And hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo....more
I didn't love this in the way I loved The Waves or To the Lighthouse but I did love it, it's so bloody clever. This edition in particular has the mostI didn't love this in the way I loved The Waves or To the Lighthouse but I did love it, it's so bloody clever. This edition in particular has the most wonderful footnotes and introductory essay. ...more
"On the page where he had written the previous day, he found a little wild pansy he could not remember having placed there. It set him dreaming. It sh"On the page where he had written the previous day, he found a little wild pansy he could not remember having placed there. It set him dreaming. It should be possible to make a little herbarium of experiences he said to himself. A flower, a sprig of this, some moss, could become as precious as relics if they reminded one of the great events of the inner life, moments of great emotion or perception. People remember the risks and dangers of picking certain specimens. Huge vistas of the world unfold before us as before: yet they only reflect time in the external world. How different would be the vision of the soul's unfolding." (page 62)...more