Gaurav Sagar > Recent Status Updates

It's well, when in difficulties, to say never a word, neither black nor white. Speech is silver but silence is golden.

The ritual is, in fact, the Secret. The Secret, as I have said, is transmitted from generation to generation, but tradition forbids a mother from teaching it to her children, as it forbids priests from doing so; initiation into the mystery is the task of the lowest of the group.

He had lived, he said, for nineteen years as though in a dream: he looked without seeing, heard without listening, forget everything. When he fell, he'd been knocked unconscious; when he came to again, the present was so rich, so clear, that it was almost unbearable, as were his older and even his most trivial memories.

The Garden of Forking Paths is a huge riddle, or parable, whose subject is time; that secret purpose forbids Ts' ui Pen the merest mention of its name. To always omit one word, to employ awkward metaphors and obvious circumlocutions, is perhaps the most emphatic way of calling attention to that word.

I am perhaps misled by old age and fear, but I suspect that human species- the only species teeters at the verge of extinction, yet that the Library- enlightened, solitary, infinite, perfectly unmoving, armed with precious volumes, pointless, incorruptible, and secret- will endure.

Men often infer from this mirror that the Library is not infinite- if it were, what need would there be for that illusory replication? I prefer to dream that burnished surfaces are a figuration and promise of the infinite..

The Company, with godlike modesty, shuns all publicity. Its agents, of course, are secret; the orders it constantly (perhaps continually) imparts are no different from those spread wholesale by impostors.

"My purpose is merely astonishing,"he wrote on Sep30,1934, from Bayonne."The final term of a theological or metaphysical proof- the world around us, or God, or chance, or universal Forms- is no more final, no more uncommon, than my revealed novel. The sole difference is that philosophers publish pleasant volumes containing the intermediate stages of their work, while I am resolved to suppress those stages of my own."

When they have fetched Ganapathy they might as well come and fetch him too

Is that homosexuality? Is that the sum of it? Even if there is more to it than that it seems a puny activity compared with sex with a woman: quick, absent- minded, devoid of dread but also devoid of allure.

She has issued no reproofs, made no demands; she has even paid the abortionist herself. In fact, she has taught him a lesson on how to behave. As for him, he has emerged ignominiously, he cannot deny it. What help he has given her has been fainthearted and, worse, incompetent. He prays she will never tell the story to anyone.

Normal people, when they feel badness flare up within them, drink, swear, commit violence. Badness to them like a fever: they want it out of their system, they want to go back to being normal. But artists have to live with their fever, whatever its nature, good or bad. The fever is what makes them artists; the fever must be kept alive. That is why artists can never be wholly present to the world.

If he cannot claim to loved for himself, at least he has been given a chance to broaden his education in the realm of the erotic.

To think that I wasted years of my life, that I wanted to die, that I felt my deepest love, for a woman who did not appeal to me, who was not my type!

To think that I wasted years of my life, that I wanted to die, that I felt my deepest love, for a woman who did not appeal to me, who was not my type!

Reality is therefore something that has no relation to possibilities, any more than the stab of a knife in our body has any relation to the gradual motions of the clouds over our head, since those words 'two or three times' carved a kind of cross in the tissue of his heart

May be it is the nothingness that is real and our entire dream is non-existent, but in that case we feel that these phrases of music, and these notions that exist in relation to our dream, must be nothing also. We will perish, but we have for hostages these divine captives who will follow us and share our fate. And death in their company is less bitter, less inglorious, perhaps less probable.

He was suffering at having to remain shut up among these people whose stupidity and absurd habits struck him all the more painfully since being unaware of his love, incapable, had they known about it, of taking interest in it or doing more than smile at it as at some childish nonsense or deplore it as utter madness, they made it appear to him as a subjective state which existed only for him

But even the ugliness of these faces, though he knew it so well, seemed new to him since their features - instead of beings signs useable in a practical way for the identification of a certain person who had until then represented a cluster of pleasures to pursue, of worries to avoid, or of courtesies to pay- now rested, coordinated only by aesthetic relations, in the autonomy of their lines.

And occasions such as this when she forgot Swann's very existence were more useful to Odette, did more to attach Swann to her, than all her coquetry. Because in this way Swann was kept in that state of painful agitation which had already been powerful enough to make his love blossom on the night when he had not found Odette at Verdurins' and had searched for her all evening

Odette did not stop talking, but her words were now no more than a long lament: her regret at not having seen Swann in the afternoon, at not having opened the door to him, had turned into true despair.

And so when she lied, overcome by fear, aware that she was not very well armed to defend herself, uncertain of success, she wanted to cry, from exhaustion, like certain children who have not slept.

And as for the voluptuous pleasure of being in love, of living by love alone, the reality of which he doubted at times, it was increased in value for him, as dilettante of immaterial sensations, by the price he was paying her for it- as we see people uncertain whether the sight of sea and the sound of its waves are delightful, convince themselves of it and also of the exceptional quality

The simple sketch was greatly disturbing to Swann because it suddenly made him see that Odette had a life which did not belong entirely to him; he wanted to know whom she had been trying please with that outfit, which he did not know she possessed

Since, of the charm, the grace, the forms of nature, the public knows only what it has absorbed form the cliches of an art slowly assimilated, and since an original artist begins by rejecting these cliches, M. and Mme Cottard, being in this sense typical of the public, found neither in Vinteuil's sonata, nor in the painter's portraits, what for them created the harmony of music and beauty of painting.

But once he was back at home he needed it, he was like a man into whose life a woman he has glimpsed for only a moment as she passed by has introduced the image of a new sort of a beauty that increases the value of his own sensibility, without his even knowing it he will ever see this woman again whom he loves already and of whom he knows nothing, not even his name.

But at the age,already a little disillusioned,which Swann was approaching,at which one knows how to content oneself with being in love for the pleasure of it without requiring too much reciprocity,this closeness of two hearts,if it is no longer,as it was in one's earliest youth,the goal towards which love necessarily tends,still remains linked to it by an association of ideas so strong that itmaybecomethecauseof love

The Others
Others are they to us
or we are to them
Them who are
as natural as we are
or us whose world is
as unnatural as it can be
Love and Compassion
thought to be
intelligence of highest form
Is our intelligence
failed to reach epitome
for our compassion and love
seems to be divisive
on the lines we shove.
Animals, the so called wild
seems to be natural
with it reconciled
So have they attained
the intelligence

Facts do not find their way into world in which our beliefs reside; they did not produce our beliefs, they do not destroy them; they may inflict on them the most constant refutations without weakening them, and an avalanche of afflictions or ailments succeeding one another without interruption in a family will not make it doubt the goodness of its God or the talent of its doctor.

as if he did not recognize us, and with that perspective in his gaze peculiar to people who do not want to be friendly and who, from the suddenly extended depths of their eyes, seem to perceive you at the end of an interminable road and at so great a distance that they confine themselves to addressing you a minuscule nod in order to give it the proportions of your puppet-like dimensions.