Gaurav Sagar > Recent Status Updates

If people of inferior intelligence hear of the Tao, they laugh immensely. It would not be the Tao unless they laughed at it.

Actually, in a moment when a great but unknown shock is expected, the mind instinctively prepares itself by abandoning momentarily the faculty of surprise. In that vulnerable instant a kaleidoscope of half-guessed possibilities project themselves, and when the disaster has defined itself there is the feeling of having understood beforehand in some supernatural way.

Out int the forest there, the Captain looked like a broken doll that had been thrown away. He was sobbing aloud.

They were all thirsty, and the Captain went back to the kitchen for another bottle of soda water. His deep uneasiness of mind was caused by the fact that he knew things could not go on much as they were.

It's truly a bizarre substance: it is cold and elusive, always restless, but when it is quite and still you can see yourself in it better than in a mirror. If you stir it around in a bowl it continues to twirl for almost half an hour.

I had given them up for lost, and found them recently while going through papers forgotten for decades. I did not want to abandon them: the reader will find them here in the succeeding pages, inserted, like a prisoner's dream of escape, between these tales of militant chemistry.

Today I know that it is a hopeless task to try to dress a man in words, make him alive again on the printed page, especially a man like Sandro. He was not the sort of person you can tell stories about, nor to whom one erects monuments--he who laughed at monuments: he lived completely in his deeds, and when they were over nothing of him remains--nothing but words, precisely.

I refused to be driven from my Paradise, I am in my cellar and no one can turn me out, no one can dismiss me.

The heavens are not humane, but I'd forgotten compassion and love.

One afternoon the slaughterhouse people brought me a truckload of bloodstained paper and blood-drenched boxes, crate after crate of the stuff, which I couldn't stand, because it had that sickly sweet smell to it and left me as gory as a butcher's apron.

In a sense, I am both artist and audience, but the daily pressure does me in, tires me out, racks me, sears me, and to reduce and restrict my enormous self-output I drink beer after beer, and on my way to Husensky's for refills I have time to meditate and dream about my next bale is going to look like.

We each went back to the war. And then things happened, and a lot more things that it's not easy to tell about now, because people nowadays

A tiny hamlet that you wouldn't even notice in the daytime, with ugly, uninteresting country around it, you can't imagine how impressive it can be when it's on fire at night! You'd think it was Notre-Dame! A village, even a small one, takes at least all night to burn, in the end it looks like an enormous flower, then there's only a bud, and after that nothing. Smoke rises, and then it's morning.

I want to meet myself. Calm, joyful, fullness without fulmination. Simply I am I. And you are you. It is vast, and will endure.

The lived thing scares me as the future scares me. That, like things that have passes, is intangible, mere supposition.

Nothing is more difficult than surrendering to the instant. That difficulty is human pain. It is ours. I surrender in words and surrender when I paint.

When the existence of me and of the world can no longer be borne by the reason- then I loose myself and follow a latent truth. Would I recognize the truth if it were proven?

But for the time being I am in the centre of everything that screams and teems. And it's subtle as the most intangible reality. For now time is the duration of a thought.

And If I say "I" it's because I dare not say "you" or "we" or "one". I'm forced to the humility of personalizing myself belittling myself but I am the are-you.

I think, Yes, do, I don't think we did go blind, I think we are blind, Blind but seeing, Blind people who can see, but do not see.

The dog of tears looked at both rats and the cats with the indifference of someone who lives in another sphere of emotions, this we might say, were it not for the fact that the dog continues to be the dog that he is, an animal of human type.

If I should let them down, she thought, it did not occur to her that all around her the people were all blind yet managed to live, she herself would also have to turn blind in order to understand that people get used to anything, especially if they have ceased to be people, and even if they have not quite reached that point, take the boy with squint there, for example, who no longer even asks for his mother.

I arrive and fall as the slug falls take the sack in my arms it weighs nothing any more to pillow my head I press a rag I shall not say to my heart.

.....other certainties the mud the dark I recapitulate the sack the tins the mud the dark the silence the solitude nothing else for the moment.....

When the doctor and the old man with the black eyepatch entered the ward with the food, they did not see, could not see, seven naked women and the corpse of the women who suffered from insomnia stretched out on her bed, cleaner than she had ever been in all her life, while another woman was washing her companions, one by one, and then herself.

The best thing is still this: not to die, because dying is insufficient, it doesn't complete me, I who need so much.

He'd been born more charred and hard than a dry tree branch or a rock in the sun. He was more susceptible to survive than Macabea because it wasn't by chance that he had killed a man, a rival of his, in the back of beyond, the long jackknife entering softly softly the backwoodsman's liver.

The worst thing would be if we got to be like that famous horse that died when it had already got out of habit of eating, someone remarked. The others gave a wan smile and one said, It wouldn't be so bad if it's true that when the horse dies, it doesn't know it's going to die.

.....Corpses instead of blind men would scarcely improve the situation, To be blind is not the same as being dead, Yes, but to be dead is to be blind.........

It's the only face I've got, But I'm only sad on my face because inside I'm actually happy. It's so happy to be alive, don't you think ?