sspiritique

[sspiritique]

We are ambivalent about rules, even when we know they are good for us. If we are spirited souls, if we have character, rules  seem restrictive, an affront to our sense of agency and our pride in working out our own lives. Why should we be judged according to another’s rule? And judged we are. After all, God didn’t give Moses “The Ten Suggestions,” he gave Commandments; and if I’m a free agent, my first reaction to a command might just be that nobody, not even God, tells me what to do, even if it’s good for me. But the story of the golden calf also reminds us that without rules we quickly become slaves to our passions—and there’s nothing freeing about that. And the story suggests something more: unchaperoned, and left to our own untutored judgment, we are quick to aim low and worship qualities that are beneath us—in this case, an artificial animal that brings out our own animal instincts in a completely unregulated way. The old Hebrew story makes it clear how the ancients felt about our prospects for civilized behaviour in the absence of rules that seek to elevate our gaze and raise our standards.

Jordan Peterson “12 Rules for Life”

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The signposts distracted us away from what they're pointing to.

Shaykh Abdal Hakim Murad

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[sspiritique]

Give me the waters of Lethe that numb the heart, if they exist, I will still not have the power to forget you.

   Ovid, The Poems of Exile: Tristia and the Black Sea Letters    

[sspiritique]

[sspiritique]

Every war and every conflict between human beings has happened because of some disagreement about names. It is such an unnecessary foolishness, because just beyond the arguing there is a long table of companionship set and waiting for us to sit down. What is praised is one, so the praise is one too, many jugs being poured into a huge basin. All religions, all this singing one song. The differences are just illusion and vanity. Sunlight looks a little different on this wall than it does on that wall and a lot different on this other one, but it is still one light. We have borrowed these clothes, these time-and-space personalities, from a light, and when we praise, we are pouring them back in.

Rumi

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Come let us mock at the great That had such burdens on the mind And toiled so hard and late To leave some monument behind, Nor thought of the levelling wind. Come let us mock at the wise; With all those calendars whereon They fixed old aching eyes, They never saw how seasons run, And now but gape at the sun. Come let us mock at the good That fancied goodness might be gay, And sick of solitude Might proclaim a holiday: Wind shrieked—and where are they? Mock mockers after that That would not lift a hand maybe To help good, wise or great To bar that foul storm out, for we Traffic in mockery.

William Butler Yeats,  Come let us mock at the great

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truth angers those whom it does not convince.

Tolstoy, What is art

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Water, water, everywhere, Nor any drop to drink.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge,  The Rime of the Ancient Mariner    

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We were keeping our eye on 1984. When the year came and the prophecy didn't, thoughtful Americans sang softly in praise of themselves. The roots of liberal democracy had held. Wher- ever else the terror had happened, we, at least, had not been visited by Orwellian nightmares. But we had forgotten that alongside Orwell's dark vision, there was another — slightly older, slightly less well known, equally chilling: Aldous Huxley's Brave New World. Contrary to common belief even among the educated, Huxley and Orwell did not prophesy the same thing. Orwell warns that we will be overcome by an externally imposed oppression. But in Huxley's vision, no Big Brother is required to deprive people of their au- tonomy, maturity and history. As he saw it, people will come to love their oppression, to adore the technologies that undo their capacities to think. What Orwell feared were those who would ban books. What Huxley feared was that there would be no reason to ban a book, for there would be no one who wanted to read one. Orwell feared those who would deprive us of information. Huxley feared those who would give us so much that we would be reduced to passivity and egoism. Orwell feared that the truth would be concealed from us. Huxley feared the truth would be drowned in a sea of irrelevance. Orwell feared we would be- come a captive culture. Huxley feared we would become a triv- ial culture, preoccupied with some equivalent of the feelies, the orgy porgy, and the centrifugal bumblepuppy. As Huxley remarked in Brave New World Revisited, the civil libertarians and rationalists who are ever on the alert to oppose tyranny "failed to take into account man's almost infinite appetite for distrac- tions." In 1984, Huxley added, people are controlled by inflict- ing pain. In Brave New World, they are controlled by inflicting pleasure. In short, Orwell feared that what we hate will ruin us. Huxley feared that what we love will ruin us.

Amusing Ourselves to Death by Neil Postman

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"Man is in love and loves what vanishes, What more is there to say?"

William Butler Yeats

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By Muhammad Asad

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To the Moon

Bushes, valleys, silently, You fill with misty light, Easing my soul utterly Again, at last, at night:

Soothingly you cast your gaze Over a dark country, As gentle and friendly eyes Guard my destiny.

Glad, and troubled, times Echo in my heart, I walk between pain and delight, In solitude, apart.

Flow on, beloved flood: flow on! I’ll never know joy again, Laughter and kisses, both are gone, And loyalty flows away.

There was a time I had as yet Life’s most precious thing! Ah, a man can never forget That which torments him!

River, through the valley, murmur, Without rest or peace, For my singing, gently whisper, Murmuring melodies,

When you rage on winter nights And then overflow, Or when around the Spring’s delights Of bursting buds, you go.

  Happy are we if, without hate, Hidden from the world, We hold a friend to our heart And with him explore

What, unknown to all their art, Ignored, by all mankind, Through the labyrinth of the heart Wanders in the night.

Goethe

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Little things I love here: mornings, sunrise, this bedroom view, that little orchard, retreating darkness, peace and quietude, even this toaster-camera, and so much more.

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It is the message from a troubled heart Without You there can be quiet but no comfort. We are filled with agitation And this is the prize of love.

Rumi