"Ours is one continued struggle against degradation sought to be inflicted upon us by the European, who desire to degrade us to the level of the raw Kaffir, whose occupation is hunting and whose sole ambition is to collect a certain number of cattle to buy a wife with, and then pass his life in indolence and nakedness." Mahatma Ghandi
"Rejoice in this, that you know. Greetings! I want you to know that all men born from the foundation of the world until now are dust. While they have inquired about God, who he is and what he is like, they have not found him. The wisest among them have speculated about the truth from the ordering of the world. And the speculation has not reached the truth. For the ordering is spoken of in three (different) opinions by all the philosophers; hence they do not agree. For some of them say about the world that it was directed by itself. Others, that it is providence (that directs it). Others, that it is fate. But it is none of these. Again, of three voices that I have just mentioned, none is true. For whatever is from itself is an empty life; it is self-made. Providence is foolish. Fate is an undiscerning thing. "
...Eugnostos, The Blessed
Originally posted by Bosse de NageAccusation vs Admission
"Ours is one continued struggle against degradation sought to be inflicted upon us by the European, who desire to degrade us to the level of the raw Kaffir, whose occupation is hunting and whose sole ambition is to collect a certain number of cattle to buy a wife with, and then pass his life in indolence and nakedness." Mahatma Ghandi
BEAUSOLEIL
(monstrum in fronte, monstrum in animo
process, process, slum full of fun!)
Beausoleil, soleil soleil soleil soleil
Beausoleil, reaping Nirvana in a desert land
Beausoleil, Thine anger rising like a scorpion
Beausoleil, dune buggy baby on a fairground slide
Beausoleil, the taste of honey and the swirl of lies
Beausoleil, jackbooting wide-eyed in the widest pit
Beausoleil, looking at smiles and seeing only grins
Beausoleil, did dead Gods smell the dog's blood rose
Beausoleil, now all Thine summers turn to menstrual winters
Beausoleil, kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill killy kill
Beausoleil, did dog's blood rise when the dead Gods died
Beausoleil, beautiful sunshine whose shadows hides
Beausoleil, white brothers planting burning crosses
Beausoleil, the sharpest flavour is the one that stains
Beausoleil, when dog's blood rises does it also dance
Beausoleil, grey benediction of the Final Church
Beausoleil, it's just your habit of culling time
Beausoleil, a Death in June under a menstrual moon
Beausoleil, Scorpio rising but the Light Bearer falls
Beausoleil, the squeky laughter of a giddy world
Beausoleil, still waving black flags from a stubble field
Beausoleil, a maltese cross is pierced by the Blood of Christ
Beausoleil, hiding from cancer crabs and cracking jokes
Beausoleil, arson archbishop makes the deserts burn
Beausoleil, the dead are grateful -- all you need is love
Beausoleil, fat Buddhas smiling with the widest grin
Beausoleil, candy floss surgeon with the golden hair
Beausoleil, a brand new Process for a brand new age
Beausoleil, a black Messiah wearing buckskin boots
Beausoleil, assassin creepy-crawls through Hebron's Vale
Beausoleil, there's no business like the devil's business
Beausoleil, another martyr for the Noddy Apocalypse
Beausoleil, que sera, sera
Beausoleil, we want to sink into the deepest basin
Beausoleil, fils de perdition, Luciferens
Beausoleil, seven and seven is the hidden key
Beausoleil, a train to Clarkesville in the menstrual night
Beausoleil, Dsineyland darknes with your Armageddon smile
Beausoleil, sangs rGyas chos dang tsogs kyi mChog rNams la
Beausoleil, you hide your candle on Golgotha's hill
(Current '93)
THE DILLY SONG
One of them is all alone
And evermore shall be so
Two of them are lily-white
Boys all clothed in green-oh
Three of them are strangers
O'er the wide world they are rangers
Four it is the dilly hour
When blooms the gilly flower
Five it is the dilly bird
That's seldom seen but heard
Six it is the ferryman
The boat o'er the river floats oh
Seven are the seven stars in the sky
The shining stars be seven-oh
Eight it is the morning break
Then all the world's awake-oh
Nine it is the pale moonshine
The shining moon is nine-oh
Ten forgives all kinds of sin
From ten begin again-oh
(trad.)
Monsieur Ibrahim (as he lays dying): “Momo, this is where the journey ends.”
Momo (his adopted son): “Oh no, we haven’t arrived there yet, at the sea of your birth.”
Monsieur Ibrahim: “Yes, I’m there. Every branch of the river comes out into the same sea. The one and only sea.”
—from Monsieur Ibrahim and the Flowers of the Koran by Eric-Emmanuel Schmidt; Monsieur Ibrahim is a Sufi grocer, played by Omar Sharif in the film version.
"I’d always heard your entire life flashes in front of your eyes the second before you die. First of all, that one second isn’t a second at all. It stretches on forever like an ocean of time. For me, it was lying on my back at Boy Scout camp watching falling stars…and yellow leaves from the maple trees that lined our street…or my grandmother’s hands and the way her skin seemed like paper…and the first time I saw my cousin Tony’s brand new Firebird. And Janie. And Janie. And…Carolyn. I guess I could be pretty pissed off about what happened to me, but it’s hard to stay mad when there’s so much beauty in the world. Sometimes I feel like I’m seeing it all at once and it’s too much. My heart fills up like a balloon that’s about to burst. And then I remember to relax and stop trying to hold onto it. And then it flows through me like rain, and I can’t feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life."
--Lester Burnham (IMO, one of the greatest characters in cinematic history), from American Beauty, written by Alan Ball
(...)
I am falling
toward sleep again. For a moment
I feel my arms spread wide to enclose
everyone within these walls whitewashed
over and over, my own sons, my woman,
and all the other sons and daughters
stretched out or curled up in bad beds
or on bare floors, their heads
pillowed on their own hard arms,
their cheeks darkened by cheap newsprint.
There is a song, bird song or wind song,
or the song old rooms sing when no one
is awake to hear. For a moment I
almost catch the melody we make
with bare walls, old iron sagging beds,
and scarred floors. There is one
deep full note for each of us.
This is the first night of my life
I know we are music.
(...)
-- from A Poem with no Ending, by Philip Levine
"Religious morality is infantile."
(...)
"This, I suggest, is how we, as adults, should regard moral rules. They are necessary, in the first place, because one man's aim in life often conflicts with the aims of others and because most of our aims involve the cooperation of others, so that, even for purely selfish reasons, we must conform to rules to which others also conform. Most moral rules, from that prohibiting murder to that enjoining punctuality, exist for this purpose. But morality is not wholly an affair of regulating our dealings with others; each man has within himself desires of many kinds which cannot all be fully satisfied; he must establish an order of priorities. Here I think almost all moralists, from Plato to D. H. Lawrence, have gone astray; for they have overemphasized the extent to which men are like each other and consequently been led to embrace the illusory concept of a "best life" that is the same for all of us. Plato thought this was a life dominated by the pursuit of knowledge, Lawrence one dominated by the pursuit of sensual experience and animal activity. I do not happen to enjoy lying naked on the grass; but I should not wish to force my preference for intellectual endeavor on anyone who did. Why should we not, within the framework of uniformity required for any life to be satsifatory to anyone at all, seek satisfaction in our own different ways?..."
-- Patrick Nowell-Smith