Soul Mountain is a literary response to the devastation of the self of the individual by the primitive human urge for the warmth and security of an other, or others, in other words by socialized life. The existence of an other resolves the problem of loneliness but brings with it anxieties for the individual, for inherent in any relationship is, inevitably, some form of power struggle. This is the existential dilemma confronting the individual, in relationships with parents, partners, family, friends and large collective groups. Human history abounds with cases of the individual being induced by force or ideological persuasion to submit to the power of the collective; the surrender of the self to the collective eventually becomes habit, norm convention and tradition, and this phenomenon is not unique to any one culture.
From Mabel Lee’s ‘Introduction’ to Gao Xingjian’s Soul Mountain (2000).
2008-04-29
Gao Xingjian
I must get out of this cave. The main peak of the Wuling Range, at the borders of the provinces of Guizhou, Sichuan, Hubei and Hunan, is 3200 meters above sea level. The annual rainfall is more than 3400 points and in one year there are barely one or two days of fine weather. When the wild winds start howling they often reach velocities of more than three hundred kilometers per hour. This is a cold, damp and evil place. I must return to the smoke and fire of the human world to search for sunlight, warmth, happiness and to search for human society to rekindle the noisiness, even if anxiety is regenerated, for that is in fact life in the human world.
Soul Mountain
The perennial and perplexing question of what is most important can be changed to a discussion of what is most authentic and at time can constitute what is known as debate. But let others discuss or debate such matters, they are of no consequence for I who am engrossed in my journey or you who are on your spiritual journey.
Soul Mountain
It is only when people refuse to accept that they shout out, even while not comprehending what they are shouting. Humans are simply such creatures, fettered by perplexities and inflicting anxiety upon themselves.
Soul Mountain
Soul Mountain
The perennial and perplexing question of what is most important can be changed to a discussion of what is most authentic and at time can constitute what is known as debate. But let others discuss or debate such matters, they are of no consequence for I who am engrossed in my journey or you who are on your spiritual journey.
Soul Mountain
It is only when people refuse to accept that they shout out, even while not comprehending what they are shouting. Humans are simply such creatures, fettered by perplexities and inflicting anxiety upon themselves.
Soul Mountain
2008-04-28
Gabriel García Márquez
Let no one be deceived, no, thinking that what he awaits will last longer than what he has seen.
Memories of My Melancholy Whore
Memories of My Melancholy Whore
Ecclesiastes
That thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done; and there is no new thing under the sun.
Ecclesiastes 1:9
King James Version
Ecclesiastes 1:9
King James Version
Louise Erdrich
"I have never seen the truth," said Damien, "without crossing my eyes. Life is crazy."
The Last Report on the Miracles at Little No Horse
The Last Report on the Miracles at Little No Horse
William C. Brann
Too many forget that while the Lord made the world, the devil has been busy ever since putting on the finishing touches. Why, he began on the first woman before she was a week old, and he has been playing schoolmaster to her sons ever since. I confess to a sneaking respect for Satan, for he is pre-eminently a success in his chosen profession. He's playing a desperate game against omnipotent power and is more than holding his own. He sat into the game with a cash capital of one snake; now he's got half the globe grabbed and an option on the other half.
Brann the Iconoclast — Volume 12
Brann the Iconoclast — Volume 12
John Keats
A man's life of any worth is a continual allegory-- and very few eyes can see the mastery of his life-- a life like the scriptures, figurative.
The Letters of John Keats, 1814-1821
The Letters of John Keats, 1814-1821
2008-04-01
Thomas Lux
A Little Tooth
by Thomas Lux
Your baby grows a tooth, then two,
and four, and five, then she wants some meat
directly from the bone. It's all
over: she'll learn some words, she'll fall
in love with cretins, dolts, a sweet
talker on his way to jail. And you,
your wife, get old, flyblown, and rue
nothing. You did, you loved, your feet
are sore. It's dusk. Your daughter's tall.
by Thomas Lux
Your baby grows a tooth, then two,
and four, and five, then she wants some meat
directly from the bone. It's all
over: she'll learn some words, she'll fall
in love with cretins, dolts, a sweet
talker on his way to jail. And you,
your wife, get old, flyblown, and rue
nothing. You did, you loved, your feet
are sore. It's dusk. Your daughter's tall.
Jane Kenyon
Afternoon in the House
by Jane Kenyon
It's quiet here. The cats
sprawl, each
in a favored place.
The geranium leans this way
to see if I'm writing about her:
head all petals, brown
stalks, and those green fans.
So you see,
I am writing about you.
I turn on the radio. Wrong.
Let's not have any noise
in this room, except
the sound of a voice reading a poem.
The cats request
The Meadow Mouse, by Theodore Roethke.
The house settles down on its haunches
for a doze.
I know you are with me, plants,
and cats---and even so, I'm frightened,
sitting in the middle of perfect
possibility.
by Jane Kenyon
It's quiet here. The cats
sprawl, each
in a favored place.
The geranium leans this way
to see if I'm writing about her:
head all petals, brown
stalks, and those green fans.
So you see,
I am writing about you.
I turn on the radio. Wrong.
Let's not have any noise
in this room, except
the sound of a voice reading a poem.
The cats request
The Meadow Mouse, by Theodore Roethke.
The house settles down on its haunches
for a doze.
I know you are with me, plants,
and cats---and even so, I'm frightened,
sitting in the middle of perfect
possibility.
Robert Hayden
Those Winter Sundays
by Robert Hayden
Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?
by Robert Hayden
Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?
Alicia Partnoy
Communication
by Alicia Partnoy
Yo te hablo de poesía
y vos me preguntás
a qué hora comemos.
Lo peor es que
yo también tengo hambre.
I am talking to you about poetry
and you say
when do we eat.
The worst of it is
I’m hungry too.
From Revenge of the Apple/Venganza de la manzana
by Alicia Partnoy
Yo te hablo de poesía
y vos me preguntás
a qué hora comemos.
Lo peor es que
yo también tengo hambre.
I am talking to you about poetry
and you say
when do we eat.
The worst of it is
I’m hungry too.
From Revenge of the Apple/Venganza de la manzana
Barry Goldensohn
The Hundred Yard Dash Man
by Barry Goldensohn
I carried him lightly,
eighty pounds, my height,
half my weight
with enough body sense—
the old track star—
to work in my arms with the balance
of his remaining mass
as easy live weight.
It became his last voyage,
from living room to bed—
this carrying was comfort to both.
Morphine had ended months
of pain—he was genial now,
euphoric, enjoying himself,
with his daughter, and me, his son.
"You must have gotten stronger,"
he said, dismissing the loss
of body with a joke.
He knew he was on his way
out the door, and knowing was easy
though less clear for me
as I laid him down in bed
and laid myself in the twin
cold, rumpled, sour.
When hushed voices woke me
saying "He died last night,"
I couldn't open my eyes
and lay there frozen
among the murmuring women.
He had slipped silently
through the door that now
he left open for me.
by Barry Goldensohn
I carried him lightly,
eighty pounds, my height,
half my weight
with enough body sense—
the old track star—
to work in my arms with the balance
of his remaining mass
as easy live weight.
It became his last voyage,
from living room to bed—
this carrying was comfort to both.
Morphine had ended months
of pain—he was genial now,
euphoric, enjoying himself,
with his daughter, and me, his son.
"You must have gotten stronger,"
he said, dismissing the loss
of body with a joke.
He knew he was on his way
out the door, and knowing was easy
though less clear for me
as I laid him down in bed
and laid myself in the twin
cold, rumpled, sour.
When hushed voices woke me
saying "He died last night,"
I couldn't open my eyes
and lay there frozen
among the murmuring women.
He had slipped silently
through the door that now
he left open for me.
Mary Oliver
The Poet with His Face in His Hands
by Mary Oliver
You want to cry aloud for your
mistakes. But to tell the truth the world
doesn't need anymore of that sound.
So if you're going to do it and can't
stop yourself, if your pretty mouth can't
hold it in, at least go by yourself across
the forty fields and the forty dark inclines
of rocks and water to the place where
the falls are flinging out their white sheets
like crazy, and there is a cave behind all that
jubilation and water fun and you can
stand there, under it, and roar all you
want and nothing will be disturbed; you can
drip with despair all afternoon and still,
on a green branch, its wings just lightly touched
by the passing foil of the water, the thrush,
puffing out its spotted breast, will sing
of the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything.
by Mary Oliver
You want to cry aloud for your
mistakes. But to tell the truth the world
doesn't need anymore of that sound.
So if you're going to do it and can't
stop yourself, if your pretty mouth can't
hold it in, at least go by yourself across
the forty fields and the forty dark inclines
of rocks and water to the place where
the falls are flinging out their white sheets
like crazy, and there is a cave behind all that
jubilation and water fun and you can
stand there, under it, and roar all you
want and nothing will be disturbed; you can
drip with despair all afternoon and still,
on a green branch, its wings just lightly touched
by the passing foil of the water, the thrush,
puffing out its spotted breast, will sing
of the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything.
2008-03-30
William Shakespeare
...What you do
Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet,
I'd have you do it ever. When you sing,
I'd have you buy and sell so, so give alms,
Pray so, and for the ord'ring you affairs,
To sing them too. When you do dance, I wish you
A wave o'th'sea, that you might ever do
Nothing but that, move still, still so,
And own no other function. Each your doing,
So singular in each particular,
Crowns what you are doing in the present deeds,
That all your acts are queens.
The Winter's Tale, Act IV, Scene IV.
Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet,
I'd have you do it ever. When you sing,
I'd have you buy and sell so, so give alms,
Pray so, and for the ord'ring you affairs,
To sing them too. When you do dance, I wish you
A wave o'th'sea, that you might ever do
Nothing but that, move still, still so,
And own no other function. Each your doing,
So singular in each particular,
Crowns what you are doing in the present deeds,
That all your acts are queens.
The Winter's Tale, Act IV, Scene IV.
2008-03-28
N. Scott Momaday
Two Figures
by N. Scott Momaday
These figures moving in my rhyme,
Who are they? Death and Death’s dog, Time.
by N. Scott Momaday
These figures moving in my rhyme,
Who are they? Death and Death’s dog, Time.
Ivan Illich
In a consumer society there are inevitably two kinds of slaves: the prisoners of addiction and the prisoners of envy.
Tools for Conviviality (1973)
Tools for Conviviality (1973)
Clarence Darrow
It is not the strongest of the species that survives, nor the most intelligent, but the ones most responsive to change.
Improving the Quality of Life for the Black Elderly: Challenges and Opportunities : Hearing before the Select Committee on Aging, House of Representatives, One Hundredth Congress, first session, September 25, 1987. This quote is often misattributed to Charles Darwin.
Improving the Quality of Life for the Black Elderly: Challenges and Opportunities : Hearing before the Select Committee on Aging, House of Representatives, One Hundredth Congress, first session, September 25, 1987. This quote is often misattributed to Charles Darwin.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Recuerdo
by Edna St. Vincent Millay
We were very tired, we were very merry---
We went back and forth all night on the ferry.
It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable---
But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,
We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon;
And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.
We were very tired, we were very merry---
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;
And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,
From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;
And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,
And the sun rose dripping, a bucket full of gold.
We were very tired, we were very merry.
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
We hailed "Good morrow, mother!" to a shawl-covered head,
And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;
And she wept "God bless you!" for the apples and the pears,
And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.
(thanks, med)
by Edna St. Vincent Millay
We were very tired, we were very merry---
We went back and forth all night on the ferry.
It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable---
But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,
We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon;
And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.
We were very tired, we were very merry---
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;
And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,
From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;
And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,
And the sun rose dripping, a bucket full of gold.
We were very tired, we were very merry.
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
We hailed "Good morrow, mother!" to a shawl-covered head,
And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;
And she wept "God bless you!" for the apples and the pears,
And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.
(thanks, med)
Joe Kane
The boy who nearly won the Texaco Art Competition
by Joe Kane
he took a large sheet
of white paper and on this
he made the world an african world
of flat topped trees and dried grasses
and he painted an elephant in the middle
and a lion with a big mane and several giraffes
stood over the elephant and some small animals to fill
in the gaps he worked all day had a bath this was saturday
on sunday he put six jackals
in the world and a great big snake
and buzzards in the sky and tickbirds
on the elephants back he drew down blue
from the sky to make a river and got the elephants
legs all wet and smudged and one of the jackals got drowned
he put red flowers in the front of the picture and daffodils in the bottom corners
and his dog major chewing a bone and mrs murphys two cats tom and jerry
and milo the milkman with a cigarette in the corner of his mouth
and his merville dairy float pulled by his wonder horse trigger
that would walk when he said click click and the holy family
in the top right corner with the donkey and cow
and sheep and baby jesus and got the 40A bus
on monday morning in to abbey street to hand
it in and the man on the door said
thats a sure winner
by Joe Kane
he took a large sheet
of white paper and on this
he made the world an african world
of flat topped trees and dried grasses
and he painted an elephant in the middle
and a lion with a big mane and several giraffes
stood over the elephant and some small animals to fill
in the gaps he worked all day had a bath this was saturday
on sunday he put six jackals
in the world and a great big snake
and buzzards in the sky and tickbirds
on the elephants back he drew down blue
from the sky to make a river and got the elephants
legs all wet and smudged and one of the jackals got drowned
he put red flowers in the front of the picture and daffodils in the bottom corners
and his dog major chewing a bone and mrs murphys two cats tom and jerry
and milo the milkman with a cigarette in the corner of his mouth
and his merville dairy float pulled by his wonder horse trigger
that would walk when he said click click and the holy family
in the top right corner with the donkey and cow
and sheep and baby jesus and got the 40A bus
on monday morning in to abbey street to hand
it in and the man on the door said
thats a sure winner
Stanley Fish
All I’m saying is that analyzing arguments is a different project than taking positions on ethical, moral or political issues. Neither is objective; both involve opinions; the opinions are, however, about different things, in one case about the best thing to do or think; in the other, about whether the case made for thinking or doing something hangs together. It would be quite possible for me, or anyone else, to fault the arguments made in behalf of a policy or agenda and still support it. I am insisting on the distinction, but no claim to objectivity is involved.
'Think Again: Why I Write These Columns', The New York Times, March 9, 2008
http://fish.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/03/09/why-i-write-these-columns/
'Think Again: Why I Write These Columns', The New York Times, March 9, 2008
http://fish.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/03/09/why-i-write-these-columns/
Richard C. Lewontin
There is hardly a chapter in the main body of The Richness of Life that does not repay a careful reading. Of all the essays in it the one that is most important to the public understanding of science is "Measuring Heads: Paul Broca and the Heyday of Craniology," for it deals with an issue that is so discomfiting for scientists that they avoid it when they can. Despite the myth of detached objectivity that scientists propagate, their motivations are as messy as everyone else's. In particular, they have political, social, and personal concerns that may influence what they do, how they do it, and what they say about it. Putting aside deliberate fraud, of which we have an embarrassment of examples, the gathering of data, their statistical representation, and their interpretation offer many opportunities for unconscious bias toward conclusions that we already "knew" to be true.
'The Triumph of Stephen Jay Gould' in The New York Review of Books, Volume 55, Number 2 · February 14, 2008.
'The Triumph of Stephen Jay Gould' in The New York Review of Books, Volume 55, Number 2 · February 14, 2008.
Abraham Lincoln
He can compress the most words into the smallest ideas of any man I ever met.
Frederick Trevor Hill credits Lincoln with this in 'Lincoln the Lawyer' (1906), adding that 'History has considerately sheltered the identity of the victim'.
Frederick Trevor Hill credits Lincoln with this in 'Lincoln the Lawyer' (1906), adding that 'History has considerately sheltered the identity of the victim'.
Aristotle
Excellence is an art won by training and habituation. We do not act rightly because we have virtue or excellence, but we rather have those because we have acted rightly. We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act but a habit.
This quote is often misattributed to Aristotle because the concepts behind the quote are his. Apparently some of the phrases in the quote come from Will Durant (The quoted phrases within Durants quotation are from Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics, Book II, 4; Book I, 7. ): "Excellence is an art won by training and habituation: we do not act rightly because we have virtue or excellence, but we rather have these because we have acted rightly; 'these virtues are formed in man by his doing the actions'; we are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act but a habit: 'the good of man is a working of the soul in the way of excellence in a complete life... for as it is not one swallow or one fine day that makes a spring, so it is not one day or a short time that makes a man blessed and happy.'" (p.76 in 'Ch. II: Aristotle and Greek Science; part VII: Ethics and the Nature of Happiness' in The Story of Philosophy: The Lives and Opinions of the World's Greatest Philosophers, 1926, Simon & Schuster, 1991). The misattribution , therefore, seems to come from taking Durant's summation of Aristotle's ideas as being the words of Artistotle himself.
This quote is often misattributed to Aristotle because the concepts behind the quote are his. Apparently some of the phrases in the quote come from Will Durant (The quoted phrases within Durants quotation are from Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics, Book II, 4; Book I, 7. ): "Excellence is an art won by training and habituation: we do not act rightly because we have virtue or excellence, but we rather have these because we have acted rightly; 'these virtues are formed in man by his doing the actions'; we are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act but a habit: 'the good of man is a working of the soul in the way of excellence in a complete life... for as it is not one swallow or one fine day that makes a spring, so it is not one day or a short time that makes a man blessed and happy.'" (p.76 in 'Ch. II: Aristotle and Greek Science; part VII: Ethics and the Nature of Happiness' in The Story of Philosophy: The Lives and Opinions of the World's Greatest Philosophers, 1926, Simon & Schuster, 1991). The misattribution , therefore, seems to come from taking Durant's summation of Aristotle's ideas as being the words of Artistotle himself.
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