Aperture Love Quotes

Le Corbusier was the sort of relentlessly rational intellectual that only France loves wholeheartedly, the logician who flies higher and higher in ever-decreasing concentric circles until, with one last, utterly inevitable induction, he disappears up his own fundamental aperture and emerges in the fourth dimension as a needle-thin umber bird.

For my eleventh birthday, Mom and Dad gave me my camera, the vintage one you already know about, with a purple strap and an old-school flash and an aperture that you rotate by hand. All the kids at school use their phones as cameras—but I wanted something solid, something real. It was love at first

Fear gets in through the same aperture as love.

He watched the aperture of the young women's lovely face close ever so slightly and felt a pang in his heart.

Something clicked . Like watching her through the lens , the aperture flicked and the light hit her face differently. She glowed. So goddamn beautiful , it hurt to look at her. Like and eclipse , I knew the longer I stared , the more fucked I'd be.

The enrichment center would like to announce a new employee initiative of forced voluntary participation. If any Aperture Science employee would like to opt out of this new voluntary testing program, please remember; science rhymes with compliance. Do you know what doesn't rhyme with compliance? Neurotoxin. Due to high mortality rates, you may be reluctant to participate in the new initiative. The enrichtment center assures you this is a strictly selfish impulse on your part, and why can't you love science like [insert co-worker's name here]?

Storm Warnings The glass has been falling all the afternoon, And knowing better than the instrument What winds are walking overhead, what zone Of grey unrest is moving across the land, I leave the book upon a pillowed chair And walk from window to closed window, watching Boughs strain against the sky And think again, as often when the air Moves inward toward a silent core of waiting, How with a single purpose time has traveled By secret currents of the undiscerned Into this polar realm. Weather abroad And weather in the heart alike come on Regardless of prediction. Between foreseeing and averting change Lies all the mastery of elements Which clocks and weatherglasses cannot alter. Time in the hand is not control of time, Nor shattered fragments of an instrument A proof against the wind; the wind will rise, We can only close the shutters. I draw the curtains as the sky goes black And set a match to candles sheathed in glass Against the keyhole draught, the insistent whine Of weather through the unsealed aperture. This is our sole defense against the season; These are the things we have learned to do Who live in troubled regions.

One morning she at last succeeded in helping him to the foot of the steps, trampling down the grass before him with her feet, and clearing a way for him through the briars, whose supple arms barred the last few yards. Then they slowly entered the wood of roses. It was indeed a very wood, with thickets of tall standard roses throwing out leafy clumps as big as trees, and enormous rose bushes impenetrable as copses of young oaks. Here, formerly, there had been a most marvellous collection of plants. But since the flower garden had been left in abandonment, everything had run wild, and a virgin forest had arisen, a forest of roses over-running the paths, crowded with wild offshoots, so mingled, so blended, that roses of every scent and hue seemed to blossom on the same stem. Creeping roses formed mossy carpets on the ground, while climbing roses clung to others like greedy ivy plants, and ascended in spindles of verdure, letting a shower of their loosened petals fall at the lightest breeze. Natural paths coursed through the wood — narrow footways, broad avenues, enchanting covered walks in which one strolled in the shade and scent. These led to glades and clearings, under bowers of small red roses, and between walls hung with tiny yellow ones. Some sunny nooks gleamed like green silken stuff embroidered with bright patterns; other shadier corners offered the seclusion of alcoves and an aroma of love, the balmy warmth, as it were, of a posy languishing on a woman’s bosom. The rose bushes had whispering voices too. And the rose bushes were full of songbirds’ nests. ‘We must take care not to lose ourselves,’ said Albine, as she entered the wood. ‘I did lose myself once, and the sun had set before I was able to free myself from the rose bushes which caught me by the skirt at every step.’ They had barely walked a few minutes, however, before Serge, worn out with fatigue, wished to sit down. He stretched himself upon the ground, and fell into deep slumber. Albine sat musing by his side. They were on the edge of a glade, near a narrow path which stretched away through the wood, streaked with flashes of sunlight, and, through a small round blue gap at its far end, revealed the sky. Other little paths led from the clearing into leafy recesses. The glade was formed of tall rose bushes rising one above the other with such a wealth of branches, such a tangle of thorny shoots, that big patches of foliage were caught aloft, and hung there tent-like, stretching out from bush to bush. Through the tiny apertures in the patches of leaves, which were suggestive of fine lace, the light

The cold pre-dawn sky was softly grey through the cave opening above, when Griff finally arose and began to retrieve his clothes. Astelle said, ‘A man like you – I could take full time.’ He smiled regretfully. ‘That is impossible, my darling girl. Even though you are irresistibly sweet to me, you are not suitable to join the Faen race, and I am not prepared to live among Morts.’ ‘Suppose I should have a child?’ she asked. ‘You have put enough seed in me to make a dozen babies.’ ‘You will not,’ he said with conviction. ‘A Faen child can be conceived only in love, and we don't have that, do we?’ Griff was quite sure that she thought nothing of him, even though she had left his emotions in turmoil. Damned bitch! She had stolen from him. ‘I would not know if we did. I don't understand how love should feel.’ ‘If you loved, you would know it,’ he told her. And you would not steal from your love, he thought fiercely. He was buckling his sword belt over the black tunic. She did not notice the shaking of his hands; she simply thought what a fine manly figure he made, and she realised how much she wanted him to stay. ‘If I did have a child – could I let you know somehow?’ Astelle clutched at the only strand of hope she could find. He strove to reassure her. ‘We do have mindlink, which means you only have to mindwhisper my name, if you ever need me – I will come.’ But he did not think this very likely. ‘Please don't go, Griff.’ She was almost tearful. ‘I have to go – before the sun rises.’ He then kissed her with unexpected tenderness, which made her feel even worse. ‘Use those jewels wisely.’ He smiled and winked at her, then looked into her eyes for a few more moments, seriously – almost wistfully. Then he just vanished before her very eyes. He had forgotten his black forest cloak. It lay on the floor at the end of the bed. Astelle picked it up and held it close to her body. She watched the red streaks of dawn spread across the cold grey sky, framed in the rocky aperture above her. If you loved, you would know it, he had said. She had never felt more lonely or deserted in her life. Unexplained tears slid slowly down her cheeks. And that was how Griff broke the Faen Colonial Rule.

Millions of us daily take advantage of [Skype], delighted to carry the severed heads of family members under our arms as we move from the deck to the cool of inside, or steering them around our new homes, bobbing them like babies on a seasickening tour. Skype can be a wonderful consolation prize in the ongoing tournament of globalization, though typically the first place it transforms us is to ourselves. How often are the initial seconds of a video's call takeoff occupied by two wary, diagonal glances, with a quick muss or flick of the hair, or a more generous tilt of the screen in respect to the chin? Please attend to your own mask first. Yet, despite the obvious cheer of seeing a faraway face, lonesomeness surely persists in the impossibility of eye contact. You can offer up your eyes to the other person, but your own view will be of the webcam's unwarm aperture. ... The problem lies in the fact that we can't bring our silence with us through walls. In phone conversations, while silence can be both awkward and intimate, there is no doubt that each of you inhabits the same darkness, breathing the same dead air. Perversely, a phone silence is a thick rope tying two speakers together in the private void of their suspended conversation. This binding may be unpleasant and to be avoided, but it isn't as estranging as its visual counterpart. When talk runs to ground on Skype, and if the purpose of the call is to chat, I can quickly sense that my silence isn't their silence. For some reason silence can't cross the membrane of the computer screen as it can uncoil down phone lines. While we may be lulled into thinking that a Skype call, being visual, is more akin to a hang-out than a phone conversation, it is in many ways more demanding than its aural predecessor. Not until Skype has it become clear how much companionable quiet has depended on co-inhabiting an atmosphere, with a simple act of sharing the particulars of a place -- the objects in the room, the light through the window -- offering a lovely alternative to talk.

THE INTERNATIONAL BESTSELLER THE Royal Physician’s Visit PER OLOV ENQUIST Translated from the Swedish by Tiina Nunnally Set in Denmark in the 1760s, The Royal Physician’s Visit magnificently recasts the dramatic era of Danish history when Johann Friedrich Struensee, a German doctor from Altona, student of Enlightenment philosophers Diderot and Voltaire, and court physician to mad young King Christian, stepped through the aperture history had opened for him and became for two years the holder of absolute power in Denmark. Dr. Struensee, tall, handsome, and charismatic, introduced hundreds of reforms, many of which would become hallmarks of the French Revolution twenty years later, including freedom of the press and improvement of the treatment of the peasantry. He also took young Queen Caroline Mathilde—unsatisfied by her unstable, childlike husband—as his mistress. He was a brilliant intellectual and brash reformer, yet Struensee lacked the cunning and subtlety of a skilled politician and, most tragically, lacked the talent to choose the right enemies at court, a flaw which would lead to his torture and execution. An international sensation sold in twenty countries, The Royal Physician’s Visit is a view from the seat of absolute power, a gripping tale, vividly and entertainingly told. Enquist’s talent is in full force as he brilliantly explores the connections that will always run between political theory and practice, power, sex, love, and the life of the mind. “A great book, a powerful book—it effortlessly and self-confidently surmounts the standard works of fiction.” —Die Zeit “Incomparably exciting in its uncompromising lucidity and at the same time unsettling.” —Suddeutsche Zeitung “Time and time again the story takes to the air on the wings of fantasy … a magnificent adventure.” —Upsala Nya Tidning “The erotic scenes are among the most beautiful I have read in modern literature.” —Kvällsposten

-Ecdysis- Sun Shedding the layers of that chair Skin of Shadows She strolled around the corners of herself dissipates to some un-seeable I snoop through the doorjamb aperture crippled leaves lean against the sprig of Hakeas to recoil.....

There before us, in a glade now not so lovely as before, were several well-known and soul-damning works including The Necronomicon—not a bad piece of work for a mad Arab fellow who’d spent a great deal of time listening at metaphysical keyholes, not realizing his sanity and life-force were dribbling through those apertures into realms that lacked any concern for his well-being.

Remember it all passes, it all moves and shifts – yes, the entire world – but what remains is the beautiful truth: you are a microscopic aperture through which you, conscious awareness, observe & dance with all that is. Things are falling, yes, but other things are rising. And you, my love, you are all of it. What you experience is yours to feel. Feel it to completeness.

Once settled, I loved New York, Boston, San Francisco, every place I lived, but what widened the aperture was where I traveled. London, Paris, Rome, Venice. I fell hard for Central America and Mexico. Unhooked from the South, in each country I now had fantasies that I could upend my life and live there forever. I wrote six books of poetry and a field guide, The Discovery of Poetry.

Amidst the poetic ambience, I held my dear Leica M6, a trusted companion. With a fluttering attention, I meticulously made precise adjustments—permitting only a refinement in the depth of field by adjusting the lens’s aperture and finely tuning the focus. I captured the ephemeral moments as the enchanting duo transformed before my lens.

They always have one foot in the pre-multitudinal side of the two way mirror. The Pre-prismed, Unseparated, Infinite, Love-emanating, Conscious Oneness side. It’s a pretty good gig if you can get it. Playing in form without getting lost in it. Very low attrition rates. But for us planet-bound, mostly closed-apertured, Greater-Reality-impoverished lowlanders, most of us most of the time don’t have even a modicum of that access. It can be a rough road, and even when it’s not, even when life’s pretty good or better, we’re still mostly really cut off from Greater Reality, from our Greater Consciousness. It’s

As the aperture of your heart opens to love you will receive more of the light of compassion, acceptance, gentleness, grace and understanding.

Sometimes knowing what to shoot is a big relief. Other times, being extemporaneous is the way to go. I love to go out and see what the universe is presenting to me on any given day. Learning to be sensitive to what is out there with no preconceived idea is a wonderful way to discover new subject matter. But only looking for the shot that presents itself in the moment seldom creates new technical skills. In order to master the camera, I give myself special assignments. Giving yourself an assignment helps you to learn about photography and your equipment. By knowing what you want to achieve, you can plan things out. This way you can slow things down. Shoot and confirm. Take notes. Concentrate on getting the shot just right! You will learn to master Aperture Priority, shutter speed, ISO, manual settings, and more. Digital Camera, 2018

Freud called the first stage of life “polymorphous perverse.” At birth infants are so undifferentiated that they have the capacity to receive erotic stimulation at every aperture of the body and any area of skin: from either or both sexes; from animals, food, objects, colors, currents of air, gradations of temperature. As we grow older, become socialized, and develop identity, the satisfactions we pursue become more specific.

when something new sparks our interest an aperture forms in some outpost of the brain, gulps down an enzyme and sprouts a branch that can actually be measured. Imagine the orchards that are cultivated in our brains as we embrace new experiences and pursue with passion those interests that once attracted us but have been sadly mislaid along the way.