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Hardcover
First published January 1, 1927
عليك أن تحطم الحدود.. أن تنكر ما تراه عيناك.. أن تموت و أنت تردد لا يوجد موت
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أنا مخلوق مؤقت و ضعيف
مصنوع من طين و أحلام
لكني أدرك أن في داخلي تصطخب كل قوى الكون
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إننا لا نناضل من أجل أنفسنا ولا من أجل عرقنا ولا من أجل الإنسانية أو الأرض أو الأفكار .. لأن ذلك لا يعدو كونه درجات مؤقتة وعزيزة من سلم الإله الذي يصعد..وهي درجات تتحطم حال أن يطأها الإله أثناء صعوده
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أنا واثق بأنني جزء من الكون المرئي و اللامرئي
نحن شيء واحد
القوى التي تعمل بداخلي و القوى الأخرى التي تدفعني لأعيش
والقوى التي تدفعني لأموت
هي بالتأكيد قواك أنت ايضا
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أنا لست جسدا معلقا لا جذور له في العالم
أنا تراب من ترابه و نفس من أنفاسه
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أنا لست طيبا، ولست نقيا، و لست مطمئنا
السعادة لا تطاق و الشقاء لا يطاق
أنا مليء بهمهمات ذعر و ظلام
أتدفق دموعا و دماء داخل زريبة لحمي الساخنة هذه
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اتبعني.. تقدم فوق الفرح و الحزن.. فوق السلام و العدالة و الفضيلة.. حطم هذه الأصنام
إنها لا تسعني
وتحطم أنت أيضا لكي أستطيع العبور
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Beyond the mind, on the edge of the heart's holy precipice, I proceed, trembling. One foot grips the secure soil, the other gropes in the darkness above the abyss.
Behind all appearances, I divine a struggling essence. I want to merge with it.
I feel that behind appearances this struggling essence is also striving to merge with my heart. But the body stands between us and separates us. The mind stands between us and separates us.
What is my duty? To shatter the body, to rush and merge with the Invisible. To let the mind fall silent that I may hear the Invisible calling.
I walk on the rim of the abyss, and I tremble.
I hear the savage cry, and I shudder. The agony that ascends within me composes itself, for the first time, into an integral human voice; it turns full face toward me and calls me clearly, with my own name, with the name of my father and my race.
This is the moment of greatest crisis. This is the signal for the March to begin. If you do not hear this Cry tearing at your entrails, do not set out.
Continue, with patience and submission, your sacred military service in the first, second, and third rank of preparation.
And listen: In sleep, in an act of love or of creation, in a proud and disinterested act of yours, or in a profound despairing silence, you may suddenly hear the Cry and set forth.
"You are not my slave, nor a plaything in my hands. You are not my friend, you are not my child. You are my comrade-in-arms!
You are not one; you are a body of troops, One of your faces lights up for a moment under the sun. Then suddenly it vanishes, and another, a younger one, lights up behind you.
The race of men from which you come is the huge body of the past, the present, and the future. It is the face itself; you are a passing expression. You are the shadow; it is the meat.
You are not free. Myriad invisible hands hold your hands and direct them, When you rise in anger, a great-grandfather froths at your mouth; when you make love, an ancestral caveman growls with lust; when you sleep, tombs open in your memory till your skull brims with ghosts.
Your skull is a pit of blood round which the shades of the dead gather in myriad flocks to drink of you and be revived.
"Do not die that we may not die," the dead cry out within you. "We had no time to enjoy the women we desired; be in time, sleep with them! We had no time to turn our thoughts into deeds; turn them into deeds! We had no time to grasp and to crystallize the face of our hope; make it firm!
"Finish our work! Finish our work! All day and all night we come and go through your body, and we cry out. No, we have not gone, we have not detached ourselves from you, we have not descended into the earth. Deep in your entrails we continue the struggle. Deliver us!"
IT IS NOT enough to hear the tumult of ancestors within you. It is not enough to feel them battling at the threshold of your mind. All rush to clutch your warm brain and to climb once more into the light of day.
But you must choose with care whom to hurl down again into the chasms of your blood, and whom you shall permit to mount once more into the light and the earth.
Do not pity them. Keep vigil over the bottomless gulf of your heart, and choose. You shall say: "This shade is humble, dark, like a beast: send him away! This one is silent and flaming, more living than I: let him drink all my blood.
Our God is not almighty, he is not all-holy, he is not certain that he will conquer, he is not certain that he will be conquered.
LIE IN AMBUSH behind appearances, patiently, and strive to subject them to laws. Thus may you open up roads through chaos and help the spirit on its course.
Impose order, the order of your brain, on the flowing anarchy of the world. Incise your plan of battle clearly on the face of the abyss.
Contend with the powers of nature, force them to the yoke of superior purpose. Free that spirit which struggles within them and longs to mingle with that spirit which struggles within you.
When a man fighting with chaos subdues a series of appearances to the laws of his mind and strictly confines these laws within the boundaries of reason, then the world breathes, the voices are ranged in order, the future becomes clarified, and all the dark and endless quantities of numbers are freed by submitting to mystical quality.
With the help of our minds we compel matter to come with us. We divert the direction of descending powers, we alter the course of the current, we transform slavery into freedom.
We do not only free God by battling and subduing the visible world about us; we also create God.
"Open your eyes," God shouts; "I want to see! Prick up your ears, I want to hear! March in the front ranks: you are my head!"