Gaurav Sagar > Recent Status Updates

Perhaps the dreams are as they are because there us enough regret and self-reproach in real, lived time. But they are always a source of comfort.

We have lost God's height, and gained Nadar's; but we have also lost depth. Once, a long time ago, we could go down into the Underworld, where the dead still lived. Now, that metaphor is lost to us, and we can only go down literally; potholing, drilling for minerals, and so on. Instead of the Underworld, the Underground.

Some think grief a kind of violent if justifiable self- pity; some that it is merely one's own reflection in death's eye; others say it's the survivor they feel sorry for, because they're the one going through it, whereas the lost loved one can no longer suffer

But if being on the level didn't shield you from pain, maybe it was better to be up in the clouds.

But what was the use of straightforwardness, if not saying what you mean, what you feel ?

We live on the flat, on the level, and yet- and so- we aspire. Groundlings, we can sometimes reach as far as the gods. Some roar with art, others with religion; most with love. But we soar. we can also crash. There are few soft landings. We may find ourselves bouncing across the ground with leg- fracturing force, dragged towards some foreign railway line. Every love story is a potential grief story.

You put together two people who have not together before; and sometimes the world is changed, sometimes not. They may crash and burn, or burn and crash. But sometimes, something new is made, and then the world is changed. Together, in that first exaltation, that first roaring sense of uplift, they are greater than their two separate selves. Together, they see further, and they see more clearly.

You put together two people who have not together before; and sometimes the world is changed, sometimes not. They may crash and burn, or burn and crash. But sometimes, something new is made, and then the world is changed. Together, in that first exaltation, that first roaring sense of uplift, they are greater than their two separate selves. Together, they see further, and they see more clearly.

In the beginning birds flew, and God made birds. Angels flew, and God made the angels. Men and women had long legs and empty backs, and God had made them like that for a reason . To mess with flight was to mess with God. It was to prove a long struggle, full of instructive legends.

"I ran across the deputy," he said, " and he didn't move a muscle; he even asked me who had given me the coat. He was so wily, to put me to the test that way."
"And what did you reply?"
"I laughed and replied I wouldn't say, not to anybody, he must excuse me, goodbye!......... He'll get his reply, all right-. Look, it's a good thirteen years since I had a new coat; I've checked it out...."

IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL NIGHT.

I think I'm beginning to see my life. I think I can already say, I have a vague desire to die. From now on I treat that word and my life as inseparable. I think I have a vague desire to be alone, just as I realize I've never been alone any more since I left childhood behind, and the family of the hunter. I'm going to write. That's what I see beyond the present moment, in great desert in whose from my life stretches..

Both are doomed to discredit because of the kind of body they have, caressed by lovers, kissed by their lips, consigned to the infamy of a pleasure unto death, as they both call it, unto the mysterious death of lovers without love. That's what it's all about: this hankering for death. It emanates from them, from their rooms, a death so strong its existence is known all over the town, in outposts upcountry.....

She treated the fact that she was his mother as if it were a crime. She kept it hidden. She must have thought it was unintelligible, impossible to convey to anyone who didn't know her sons as she did, before God and only before Him.

You always went home with the feeling of having experienced a sort of empty nightmare, of having spent a few hours as the guest of strangers with other guests who were strangers too, of having lived through a space of time without any consequences and without any cause, human or other. It was like having crossed a third frontier, having been on a train, having waited in doctors' waiting rooms, hotels, airports.

We're united in a fundamental shame at having to live. It's here we are at the heart of our common fate, the fact that all three of us are our mother's children of a candid creature murdered by society. We're on the side of the society which has reduced her to despair. Because of what's been done to our mother, so amiable, so trusting, we hate life, we hate ourselves.

I can still see it now in pictures of present prosperity, in the way they go along together without any sign of impatience, in the way they are alone in a crowd, without happiness, it seems, without sadness, without curiosity, going along without seeming to, without meaning to, just going this way rather that that, alone and in the crowd, never alone even by themselves, always alone even in the crowd.

An apocalyptic spree

Out on gust of wind
Flying high was I
Sun was long doused
Looking in to long spread
To my dread
Found only myself
To walk behind or ahead

Apocalypse it was
Or an insanely weird reverie
Which was hard to surpass

Weirdest was my mind
Which always plays tricks
Tricks to which often I resign

Now dark was taking over light
And wind was blowing
With its full might
Strange feeling it was

There 's storm blowing inside the water. A wind raging.

Sometimes it is sweet to be mad.

Aristotle:- No great intellect has been without a touch of madness.

Just look at that serenity in the midst of a hurricane, that spirit worthy of immortality, which invokes its own fate to establish the truth, and in that very last phase of life questions the departing soul and seeks to learn something not only up to the time of death but from the very experience of death itself.

He who fears death will never do anything worthy of a living man.

Bion aptly remarks that plucking out hair hurts bald people just as much as those with hair.

We are weak in enduring anything, and cannot put up with toil or pleasure or ourselves or anything for long. This weakness has driven some men to their deaths; because by frequently changing their aims they kept falling back on the same things and had left themselves no room for novelty.

Therefore it is better to conquer our grief than to deceive it. For of it has withdrawn, being merely beguiled by pleasures and preoccupations, it starts up again and from its very respite gains force to savage us. But the grief that has been conquered by reason is calmed for ever.

What lunatics to covet sometimes a condition they always dread! What mental darkness, what ignorance of the truth blinds those who, though afflicted by the fear of poverty, yet take pleasure in imitating it !

Petty is the mind which delights in earthly things: it should be led away to those things which appear everywhere equally, everywhere equally lustrous.

No man has been shattered by the blows of Fortune unless he was first deceived by her favours.

Everlasting misfortune does have one blessing that it ends up by toughening those whom it constantly afflicts.

Indeed the state of all those who are preoccupied is wretched, but the most wretched are those who are toiling not even at their own preoccupations, but must regulate their sleep by another's, and their walk by another's pace, and obey orders in those freest of all things, loving and hating. If such people want to know how short their lives are, let them reflect how small a portion is their own.