Conference Of The Birds Quotes

The ocean can be yours; why should you stop Beguiled by dreams of evanescent dew? The secrets of the sun are yours, but you Content yourself with motes trapped in beams.

I doubt my doubt, doubt itself is unsure I love, but who is it for whom I sigh? Not Muslim, yet not heathen; who am I?

I'd rather die deceived by dreams than give My heart to home and trade and never live.

The Beginning is lost; the End stretches into eternity. Don't bother with them, they're all irrelevant. And since all is really nothing, then nothing is truly everything.

...Rise up and play Those liquid notes that steal men's hearts away.

I KNOW THE WAY YOU CAN GET I know the way you can get When you have not had a drink of Love: Your face hardens, Your sweet muscles cramp. Children become concerned About a strange look that appears in your eyes Which even begins to worry your own mirror And nose. Squirrels and birds sense your sadness And call an important conference in a tall tree. They decide which secret code to chant To help your mind and soul. Even angels fear that brand of madness That arrays itself against the world And throws sharp stones and spears into The innocent And into one's self. O I know the way you can get If you have not been drinking Love: You might rip apart Every sentence your friends and teachers say, Looking for hidden clauses. You might weigh every word on a scale Like a dead fish. You might pull out a ruler to measure From every angle in your darkness The beautiful dimensions of a heart you once Trusted. I know the way you can get If you have not had a drink from Love's Hands. That is why all the Great Ones speak of The vital need To keep remembering God, So you will come to know and see Him As being so Playful And Wanting, Just Wanting to help. That is why Hafiz says: Bring your cup near me. For all I care about Is quenching your thirst for freedom! All a Sane man can ever care about Is giving Love!

When you feel empty, you have to open up your heart and let the wind sweep through it.

I am alone; make me your single goal -- My presence is sufficient for your soul; I am your God, your one necessity -- With every breath you breathe, remember Me.

Heart’s blood and bitter pain belong to love, And tales of problems no one can remove; Cupbearer, fill the bowl with blood, not wine - And if you lack the heart’s rich blood take mine. Love thrives on inextinguishable pain, Which tears the soul, then knits the threads again. A mote of love exceeds all bounds; it gives The vital essence to whatever lives. But where love thrives, there pain is always found; Angels alone escape this weary round - They love without that savage agony Which is reserved for vexed humanity.

How strange it was that man could neither brook The presence nor the absence of his look!

His part is mercy, ours is endless praise.

DEAR DI­ARY You are greater than the Bible And the Con­fer­ence of the Birds And the Up­an­ishads All put to­geth­er You are more se­vere Than the Scrip­tures And Ham­mura­bi’s Code More dan­ger­ous than Luther’s pa­per Nailed to the Cathe­dral door You are sweet­er Than the Song of Songs Might­ier by far Than the Epic of Gil­gamesh And braver Than the Sagas of Ice­land I bow my head in grat­itude To the ones who give their lives To keep the se­cret The dai­ly se­cret Un­der lock and key Dear Di­ary I mean no dis­re­spect But you are more sub­lime Than any Sa­cred Text Some­times just a list Of my events Is holi­er than the Bill of Rights And more in­tense

وما علمنا فى أى وقت أنعم علينا بالقلب

Since love has spoken in your soul, reject The Self, that whirlpool where our lives are wrecked; As Jesus rode his donkey, ride on it; Your stubborn Self must bear you and submit - Then burn this Self and purify your soul; Let Jesus' spotless spirit be your goal.

Birds do not attend flight schools; Rivers do not attend flowing colleges; Fishes do not attend swimming conferences; Trees do not attend fruit bearing seminars... There is something that you can do automatically that someone may not do... Find it and do it! There is something someone may do automatically that you may not do; leave it for him to it!

It was in China, late one moonless night, The Simorgh first appeared to mortal sight – He let a feather float down through the air, And rumours of its fame spread everywhere...

Who trusts the sea? Lawlessness is her law; You will be drowned if you cannot decide To turn away from her inconstant tide. She seethes with love herself - that turbulence Of tumbling waves, that yearning violence, Are for her Lord, and since she cannot rest, What peace could you discover in her breast? She lives for Him - yet you are satisfied To her His invitation and to hide.

There’s an art to fleeing casually. It’s not easy, running from something that might kill you while not attracting stares.

Lift your head out of this hurricane to find solace and tranquillity. If you stay caught in the storm, your head will whirl as fast as a millstone and you will know so little peace that even a single fly can buzz away your peace. Parable

The dwellers in Paradise know that the first thing they must give up is their heart.

Why Just ask the donkey in me To speak to the donkey in you, When I have so many other beautiful animals And brilliant colored birds inside That are longing to say something wonderful And exciting to your heart? Let's open all the locked doors upon our eyes That keep us from knowing the Intelligence That begets love And a more lively and satisfying conversation With the Friend. Let's turn loose our golden falcons So that they can meet in the sky Where our spirits belong-- Necking like two Hot kids. Let's hold hands and get drunk near the sun And sing sweet songs to God Until He joins us with a few notes From his own sublime lute and drum. If you have a better idea Of how to pass a lonely night After your glands may have performed All their little magic Then speak up sweethearts, speak up, For Hafiz and all the world will listen. Why just bring your donkey to me Asking for stale hay And a boring conference with the idiot In regards to this precious matter-- Such a precious matter as love, When I have so many other divine animals And brilliant colored birds inside That are all longing To so sweetly Greet You!

A thousand for his love expired each day, And those who saw his face, in blank dismay Would rave and grieve and mourn their lives away- To die for love of that bewitching sight Was worth a hundred lives without his light. None could survive his absence patiently, None could endure this king's proximity- How strange it was that man could neither brook The presence nor the absence of his look!

Cupbearer, fill the bowl with blood, not wine -- And if you lack the heart’s rich blood, take mine. Love thrives on inextinguishable pain; Which tears the soul, then knits the threads again.

Among lovers, only those with wings flee this worldly cage before death comes. The condition of these lovers is hard to recount, for such souls speak a different tongue. The one who learns and speaks their language will hold the elixir of happiness at Simorgh's court.

If you become sure-footed in love, you'll transcend everything, even blasphemy and belief.

There is so a real poem," said Fatima, annoyed. "The real Conference of the Birds was written by someone, by a real person. He had certain intentions. I want to know what they are. He wrote the poem for a reason, and the reason matters." "Does it?" Vikram stretched his toes, revealing a row of claws as black as obsidian. "Once a story leaves the hand of its author, it belongs to the reader. And the reader may see any number of things, conflicting things, contradictory things. The author goes silent. If what he intended matter so very much, there would be no need for inquisitions, schisms and wars. But he is silent, silent. The author of the poem is silent, the author of the world is silent. We are left with no intentions but our own.

It was the second time in three days that I'd taken up space normally reserved for a dead body. It seemed like the universe was trying to tell me something and not in a terribly subtle way.

In this valley, Love is represented by fire, Reason by smoke. When Love bursts into flame, Reason is forthwith dissipated like smoke. Reason cannot coexist with Love’s mania, for Love has nothing whatever to do with human Reason. If ever you attain a clear vision of the unseen world, then only will you be able to realize the source of Love. By the odour of Love every atom in the world is intoxicated. It owes its existence to the existence of Love. If

In the way of religion gold is like a lame donkey; it has no value, only weight.

The seven oceans are drops of rain...

Girl from the fifth floor, who feeds the birds every day, climbs up to the water tank and jumps off. I see her body on the road below, and feel absolutely nothing. Maybe because I expect her to get up and walk off. In a story, the birds would have joined forces in a show of gratitude and broken her fall, carried her to a faraway land of safety. As it is, they just gurgle foolishly and confer about the no-show of breakfast. I imagine myself in Pigeon girl's place - a split open bag of skin on tar.

If he who enters on the spiritual path is not wholly consumed by the fire of love, how can he withstand the sadness that will overwhelm him? So long as you do not consume yourself entirely, how can you hope to be free from sorrow?

The Valley of Understanding: Here we all choose a different way and different rules to disobey.

When they had understood the hoopoe's words, A clamour of complaint rose from the birds: 'Although we recognize you as our guide, You must accept - it cannot be denied - We are a wretched, flimsy crew at best, And lack the bare essentials for this quest. Our feathers and our wings, our bodies' strength Are quite unequal to the journey's length; For one of us to reach the Simorgh's throne Would be miraculous, a thing unknown. [...] He seems like Solomon, and we like ants; How can mere ants climb from their darkened pit Up to the Simorgh's realm? And is it fit That beggars try the glory of a king? How ever could they manage such a thing?' The hoopoe answered them: 'How can love thrive in hearts impoverished and half alive? "Beggars," you say - such niggling poverty Will not encourage truth or charity. A man whose eyes love opens risks his soul - His dancing breaks beyond the mind's control. [...] Your heart is not a mirror bright and clear If there the Simorgh's form does not appear; No one can bear His beauty face to face, And for this reason, of His perfect grace, He makes a mirror in our hearts - look there To see Him, search your hearts with anxious care.

One never knows when the end is coming, or if we may all be assembled together as a whole and complete family again. And so I want you to know that I regret every day that my full attention has been called away from you, and if these talks, and the rebuilding of our loops at home, have caused me to shirk my responsibility to you, I am sorry. In the end I am your mistress and your servant. You mean more to me than all the birds in the sky and the heavens above them. If you love me, I hope I have deserved it.

Love is a cruel pain that devours everything. Sometimes it tears the veil from the soul, sometimes it draws it together. An atom of love is preferable to all that exists between the horizons, an atom of its pain better than the happy love of all lovers. Love is the marrow of beings; but there can be no real love without real suffering. Whoever is grounded firm in love renounces faith, religion, and unbelief. Love will open the door of spiritual poverty and poverty will show you the way of unbelief. When there remains neither unbelief nor religion, your body and your soul will disappear; you will then be worthy of the mysteries- if you could fathom them, this is the only way.

The sorrow bird: We've gone too far. I'm afraid we can't go back. Hoopoe: Back?... There's a circle, bird. Why, just think of the phoenix. He lives alone for more than a thousand years acquiring great wisdom and when it's his time to go, he gathers leaves around himself, spreads his wings, and starts a fire - a new phoenix is born from his ashes. We're going forward, bird!

When April with its sweet showers has pierced the drought of March to the root, and bathed every vein of earth with that liquid by whose power the flowers are engendered; when the zephyr, too, with its dulcet breath, has breathed life into the tender new shoots in every copse and on every hearth, and the young sun has run half his course in the sign of the Ram, and the little birds that sleep all night with their eyes open give song (so Nature prompts them in their hearts), then, as the poet Geoffrey Chaucer observed many years ago, folk long to go on pilgrimages. Only, these days, professional people call them conferences. The modern conference resembles the pilgrimage of medieval Christendom in that it allows the participants to indulge themselves in all the pleasures and diversions of travel while appearing to be austerely bent on self-improvement. To be sure, there are certain penitential exercises to be performed - the presentation of a paper, perhaps, and certainly listening to papers of others.

Wanderer, you are distraught; Be calm. Our glorious King cannot admit All comers to His court; it is not fit That every rascal who sleeps out the night Should be allowed to glimpse its radiant light. Most are turned back, and few perceive the throne; Among a hundred thousand there is one.

The other birds in turn received their chance To show off their loquacious ignorance. All made excuses – floods of foolish words Flowed from these babbling, rumour-loving birds. Forgive me, reader, if I do not say All these excuses to avoid the Way; But in an incoherent rush they came, And all were inappropriate and lame.

Soar on to the King, the crown jewel, And then you'll truly see That nothing is as beautiful As His grand Majesty.

Nu cunosc nimic și nu mă cunosc nici pe mine. Sunt îndrăgostit, dar nu știu de cine. Ce sunt eu deci? Nu-mi cunosc nici măcar iubirea; am inima totodată plină și goală de iubire.

the destroyer of ego. When the ego is annihilated, the inner eye blinks open.

¿Conocen la historia del pájaro que se extravió y nadie fué en su busca? Se convirtió en piedra y lloró. Lloró pequeñísimos guijarros.

People say things when they’re upset. It doesn’t mean they don’t care if you live or die.” “We’re family. Don’t you know that?

I think dreams contain lots of meaning. But that meaning doesn’t have to be literally true.

My brain, as ever, was a hope-making machine.

You mean more to me than all the birds in the sky and the heavens above them. If you love me, I hope I have deserved it.

God is all, and things have only a nominal value; the world visible and the world invisible are only Himself.

يا رب ألا لليلتي من نهار ؟ ألا لشمع الفلك من اشتعال ؟ قد قضيت الليالي الطوال في رياضة، وما أرى أحد قط ليالي مثلها، ومن الاحتراق كالشمع فقدت كل قوة، وماعاد بكبدي من ماء غير دماء القلب، وأصبحت كالشمعة أقتل بالإشعال والإحراق، لذا أحرق بالليل، وأقتل بالنهار. لقد قضيت الليلة أقاسي أهوال القتال، وغرقت من رأسي إلى قدمي في خضم الدماء، وفي كل لحظة تعرض لي مئات الأهوال، ولا أعلم متى يشرق صبحي ؟ وكل من مني بمثل تلك الليلة ذات مرة، أصبح شغله الشاغل في ليله ونهاره إحراق كبده. وكثيرا ما قضيت النهار والليل في لوعة، ولكن تلك الليلة كأنها يوم هلاكي، بل كأنني كنت قد خلقت ذات يوم، من أجلت تلك الليلة، فيا إلهي، ألا لليلتي هذه من نهار ؟ ألا لشمع الفلك من اشتعال ؟ يا رب، أهذه سمات هذه الليلة ؟ أو أن الليلة يوم القيامة ؟ أو أن شمع الفلك قد انطفأ بزفرتي ؟ أو أن حبيبي توارى من الخجل خلف الحجب ؟ الليل طويل حالك الظلمة كشعرها، ولولا ذلك لسلكت الطريق مائة مرة إلى محلتها، إنني أحترق الليلة من جوى العشق، ولم تعد لي طاقة لتحمل إيلام العشق، أين العمر لأصف ذلتي، أو لأتأوه بكامل إرادتي ؟ أين الصبر حتى أكف عن المسير، أو أن أعاقر الكؤوس كالرجال؟ وأين الحظ، حتى تصحو عزيمتي، أو أن تعينني في عشقها؟ وأين العقل، حتى يكون العلم قدوتي، أو بحيلة العقل أمثل أمامها ؟ وأين اليد حتى أضع تراب الطريق على مفرقي، أو أن أرفع رأسي من تحت التراب والدم ؟ وأين القدم حتى أعاود البحث عن محلة الحبيب ؟ وأين العين حتى أعاود رؤية وجه الحبيب؟ وأين الرفيق حتى يساعدني في غمي؟... وأين الصديق حتى يأخذ لحظة بيدي ؟ وأين القوة حتى أستطيع البكاء والنواح ؟ وأين الفطنة حتى أتصرف بحكمة ؟ ذهب العقل، وانقضى الصبر وولى الحبيب، فأي عشق هذا ؟ وأي ألم، وأي فعل؟

According to Gen. Dwight D. Eisenhower, when he was informed of the existence of the bomb at the Potsdam Conference in July, he told Stimson he thought an atomic bombing was unnecessary because “the Japanese were ready to surrender and it wasn’t necessary to hit them with that awful thing.

The birds assemble and the hoopoe tells them of the Simorgh The world’s birds gathered for their conference And said: “Our constitution makes no sense. All nations in the world require a king; How is it we alone have no such thing? Only a kingdom can be justly run; We need a king and must inquire for one.

Dear hoopoe, welcome! You will be our guide; It was on you King Solomon relied To carry secret messages between His court and distant Sheba’s lovely queen. He knew your language and you knew his heart -- As his close confidant you learnt the art Of holding demons captive underground, And for these valiant exploits you were crowned.

But where should he begin? - Well, then, the trouble with the English was their: Their: In a word, Gibreel solemnly pronounced, their weather. Gibreel Farishta floating on his cloud formed the opinion that the moral fuzziness of the English was meteorologically induced. 'When the day is not warmer than the night,' he reasoned, 'when the light is not brighter than the dark, when the land is not drier than the sea, then clearly a people will lose the power to make distinctions, and commence to see everything - from political parties to sexual partners to religious beliefs - as much-the-same, nothing-to-choose, give-or-take. What folly! For truth is extreme, it is so and not thus, it is him and not her; a partisan matter, not a spectator sport. It is, in brief, heated. City,' he cried, and his voice rolled over the metropolis like thunder, 'I am going to tropicalize you.' Gibreel enumerated the benefits of the proposed metamorphosis of London into a tropical city: increased moral definition, institution of a national siesta, development of vivid and expansive patterns of behaviour among the populace, higher-quality popular music, new birds in the trees (macaws, peacocks, cockatoos), new trees under the birds (coco-palms, tamarind, banyans with hanging beards). Improved street-life, outrageously coloured flowers (magenta, vermilion, neon-green), spider-monkeys in the oaks. A new mass market for domestic air-conditioning units, ceiling fans, anti-mosquito coils and sprays. A coir and copra industry. Increased appeal of London as a centre for conferences, etc.: better cricketeers; higher emphasis on ball-control among professional footballers, the traditional and soulless English commitment to 'high workrate' having been rendered obsolete by the heat. Religious fervour, political ferment, renewal of interest in the intellegentsia. No more British reserve; hot-water bottles to be banished forever, replaced in the foetid nights by the making of slow and odorous love. Emergence of new social values: friends to commence dropping in on one another without making appointments, closure of old-folks' homes, emphasis on the extended family. Spicier foods; the use of water as well as paper in English toilets; the joy of running fully dressed through the first rains of the monsoon. Disadvantages: cholera, typhoid, legionnaires' disease, cockroaches, dust, noise, a culture of excess. Standing upon the horizon, spreading his arms to fill the sky, Gibreel cried: 'Let it be.

IN 1959, Oppenheimer attended a conference in Rheinfelden, West Germany, sponsored by the Congress on Cultural Freedom. He and twenty other world-renowned intellectuals gathered in the luxurious Saliner Hotel on the banks of the Rhine near Basel to discuss the fate of the Western industrialized world. Safe in this cloistered environment, Oppenheimer broke his silence on nuclear weapons and spoke with uncharacteristic clarity about how they were seen and valued in American society. “What are we to make of a civilization which has always regarded ethics as an essential part of human life,” he asked, but “which has not been able to talk about the prospect of killing almost everybody except in prudential and game-theoretical terms?

There is a man in China who gathers stones, without ceasing. He sheds abundant tears, and as the tears fall on the ground they change into stones, which again he gathers. If the clouds were to weep tears like these it would be a . matter for sorrow and sighing. Real knowledge becomes the possession of the true seeker. If it is necessary to seek knowledge in China, then go. But when knowledge is distorted by the formal mind, it becomes petrified, like stones. How long must real knowledge continue to be misunderstood? This world, this house of sorrows, is in darkness; but true knowledge is a jewel, it will burn like a lamp and guide you in this gloomy place. If you spurn this jewel, you will ever be a prey to regret. If you lag behind, you will weep bitter tears. But if you sleep little by night, and fast by day, you may find what you seek. Seek, then, and be lost in the quest.

If your spirit is not fit to see the Simurgh, neither will your heart be a bright mirror, fit to reflect him. It is true that no eye is able to contemplate and marvel at his beauty, not is it capable of understanding; one cannot feel towards the Simurgh as one feels towards the beauty of this world. But by his abounding grace he has given us a mirror to reflect himself, and this mirror is the heart. Look into your heart and there you will see his image.

Now the Sun celestial began to shine forth in front of them, and lo! how great was their surprise! In the reflection of their faces these thirty birds of the earth beheld the face of the Celestial Simurg. When they cast furtive glances towards the Simurg, they perceived that the Simurg was no other than those self-same thirty birds. In utter bewilderment, they lost their wits and wondered whether they were their own selves or whether they had been transformed into the Simurg. Then, to themselves they turned their eyes, and wonder of wonders, those self-same birds seemed to be one Simurg! Again, when they gazed at both in a single glance, they were convinced that they and the Simurg formed in reality only one Being. This single Being was the Simurg and the Simurg this Being. That one was this and this one was that. Look where they would, in whatever direction, it was only the Simurg they saw. No one has heard of such a story in the world. Drowned in perplexity, they began to think of this mystery without the faculty of thinking, but finding no solution to the riddle, they besought the Simurg, though no words passed their lips, to explain this mystery and to solve this enigma of I and Thou. The Simurg thereupon deigned to vouchsafe this reply to them: “The Sun of my Majesty is a mirror.

The bat who wanted to see the sun One night a bat said: “How is it that I
 Have never seen the sun; I wonder why? 
I long to lose myself inks pure light; 
Instead my wretched life is one long night -But though I travel with my eyes shut fast I know I’ll reach that promised blaze at last.” A seer had overheard and said: “What pride! A thousand years might bring you to its side; You are bewildered, lost you could as soon Attain the sun as could an ant the moon.” The unpersuaded bat said: “Never mind, I’ll fly about and see what I can find.” 
For years he flew in dismal ignorance,
 Till he collapsed in an exhausted trance
 And murmured as he tried in vain to fly:
“Where is the sun? Perhaps I’ve passed it by?”


The moths and the flame by Farid ud-Din Attar Moths gathered in a fluttering throng one night To learn the truth about the candle light, And they decided one of them should go To gather news of the elusive glow. One flew till in the distance he discerned A palace window where a candle burned — And went no nearer: back again he flew To tell the others what he thought he knew. The mentor of the moths dismissed his claim, Remarking: “He knows nothing of the flame.” A moth more eager than the one before Set out and passed beyond the palace door. He hovered in the aura of the fire, A trembling blur of timorous desire, Then headed back to say how far he’d been, And how much he had undergone and seen. The mentor said: “You do not bear the signs Of one who’s fathomed how the candle shines.” Another moth flew out — his dizzy flight Turned to an ardent wooing of the light; He dipped and soared, and in his frenzied trance Both self and fire were mingled by his dance — The flame engulfed his wing-tips, body, head, His being glowed a fierce translucent red; And when the mentor saw that sudden blaze, The moth’s form lost within the glowing rays, He said: “He knows, he knows the truth we seek, That hidden truth of which we cannot speak.” To go beyond all knowledge is to find That comprehension which eludes the mind, And you can never gain the longed-for goal Until you first outsoar both flesh and soul; But should one part remain, a single hair Will drag you back and plunge you in despair — No creature’s self can be admitted here, Where all identity must disappear.

That exactly is how my father and mother met and became man and wife. There were no home ceremonials, such as the seeking and obtaining of parental consent, because there were no parent; no conferences by uncles and grand-uncles, or exhortations by grandmothers and aunts; no male relatives to arrange the marriage knot, nor female relations to herald the family union, and no uncles of the bride to divide the bogadi (dowry) cattle as, of course, there were no cattle. It was a simple matter of taking each other for good and or ill with the blessing of the ‘God of Rain’. The forest was their home, the rustling trees their relations, the sky their guardian and the birds, who sealed the marriage contract with the songs, the only guests. Here they stablished their home and names it Re-Nosi (We-are-alone). [41]

Said the Hoopoe: 'O ignorant of the sea, don't you know that it is full of crocodiles and other dangerous creatures? Sometimes its water is bitter, sometimes salt; sometimes it is calm, sometimes boisterous; always changing, never stable; sometimes it flows, sometimes it ebbs. Many great ones have been swallowed up in its abyss. The diver in its depths holds his breath lest he should be thrown up like a straw. The sea is an element devoid of loyalty. Do not trust it or it will end up submerging you. it is restless because of its love for its friend. Sometimes it rolls great billows, sometimes it roars. Since the sea cannot find what it desires, how will you find there a resting place for your heart! The ocean is a rill which rises inthe way that leads to its friend; why then should you remain here content, and not strive to see the face of the Simurgh.

The plea for ethical veganism, which rejects the treatment of birds and other animals as a food source or other commodity, is sometimes mistaken as a plea for dietary purity and elitism, as if formalistic food exercises and barren piety were the point of the desire to get the slaughterhouse out of one’s kitchen and one’s system. Abstractions such as 'vegetarianism' and 'veganism' mask the experiential and philosophical roots of a plant-based diet. They make the realities of 'food' animal production and consumption seem abstract and trivial, mere matters of ideological preference and consequence, or of individual taste, like selecting a shirt, or hair color. However, the decision that has led millions of people to stop eating other animals is not rooted in arid adherence to diet or dogma, but in the desire to eliminate the kinds of experiences that using animals for food confers upon beings with feelings. The philosophic vegetarian believes with Isaac Bashevis Singer that even if God or Nature sides with the killers, one is obliged to protest. The human commitment to harmony, justice, peace, and love is ironic as long as we continue to support the suffering and shame of the slaughterhouse and its satellite operations. Vegetarians do not eat animals, but, according to the traditional use of the term, they may choose to consume dairy products and eggs, in which case they are called lacto-ovo (milk and egg) vegetarians. In reality, the distinction between meat on the one hand and dairy products and eggs on the other is moot, as the production of milk and eggs involves as much cruelty and killing as meat production does: surplus cockerels and calves, as well as spent hens and cows, have been slaughtered, bludgeoned, drowned, ditched, and buried alive through the ages. Spent commercial dairy cows and laying hens endure agonizing days of pre-slaughter starvation and long trips to the slaughterhouse because of their low market value.

My intention, this time, was to transfer a play to the screen while keeping its theatrical character. It was in some senses a matter of walking, invisibly, around the stage and catching the different aspects and nuances in the play, the urgency and the facial expressions that escape a spectator who cannot follow them in detail from a seat in the stalls. Apart from that, I had noticed how effective a play becomes when you have a bird's-eye view from it, for example from the flies, that is to say from the viewpoint of a voyeur. The Audience is enclosed with the characters in a room lacking its fourth wall and listens to them on equal terms, without the element of my story conferred on scenes of intimacy by the whimsical shape of a keyhole.” “L'aigle à deux têtes is not History. It is a story, an invented story lived out by imaginary heroes, and I should never have dared venture into the realistic world of cinema without being able to rely on the help of Christian Bérard. He has a genius for situating whatever he touches, for giving it a depth in time and space and an appearance of truth that are literally inimitable.” (...) “A drama of this kind would be unacceptable, and almost impossible to tell, unless it was interpreted by superb actors who could instill grandeur and life into it. Edwige Feuillère and Jean Marais, applauded evening after evening in their parts in the play, surpass themselves on the screen and give of themselves, as I suggested above, everything that they cannot give us on the stage.” “George Auric's music and the Strauss waltzes at the krantz ball make up the liquid in this drama of love and death is immersed.” (...) “In L'aigle à deux têtes, I wanted to make a theatrical film.” (...) “I know the faults of the film, but unfortunately the expense of the medium and the constraints of time that it imposes on us, prevent us from correcting our faults, Cinematography costs too much.” (...) “In Les parents terribles (1948), what I determined to do was the opposite of what I did in L'aigle à deux têtes; to de-theatricalize a play, to film it in chronological order and to catch the characters by surprise from the indiscreet angle of the camera. In short, I wanted to watch a family through the keyhole instead of observing its life from a seat in the stalls.

At the Translation Conference In our language we have no words for he or she or him or her. It helps if you put a skirt or tie or some such thing on the first page. In the case of a rape, it helps also to know the age: a child, an elderly? So we can set the tone. We also have no future tense: what will happen is already happening. But you can add a word like Tomorrow or else Wednesday. We will know what you mean. These words are for things that can be eaten. The things that can’t be eaten have no words. Why would you need a name for them? This applies to plants, birds, and mushrooms used in curses. On this side of the table women do not say No. There is a word for No, but women do not say it. It would be too abrupt. To say No, you can say Perhaps. You will be understood, on most occasions. On that side of the table there are six classes: unborn, dead, alive, things you can drink, things you can’t drink, things that cannot be said. Is it a new word or an old word? Is it obsolete? Is it formal or familiar? How offensive is it? On a scale of one to ten? Did you make it up? At the far end of the table right next to the door, are those who deal in hazards. If they translate the wrong word they might be killed or at the least imprisoned. There is no list of such hazards. They’ll find out only after, when it might not matter to them about the tie or skirt or whether they can say No. In cafés they sit in corners, backs to the wall. What will happen is already happening. IV.

My mother had a passion for all fruit except oranges, which she refused to allow in the house. She named each one of us, on a seeming whim, after a fruit and a recipe- Cassis, for her thick black-currant cake. Framboise, her raspberry liqueur, and Reinette after the reine-claude greengages that grew against the south wall of the house, thick as grapes, syrupy with wasps in midsummer. At one time we had over a hundred trees (apples, pears, plums, gages, cherries, quinces), not to mention the raspberry canes and the fields of strawberries, gooseberries, currants- the fruits of which were dried, stored, made into jams and liqueurs and wonderful cartwheel tarts on pâte brisée and crème pâtissière and almond paste. My memories are flavored with their scents, their colors, their names. My mother tended them as if they were her favorite children. Smudge pots against the frost, which we base every spring. And in summer, to keep the birds away, we would tie shapes cut out of silver paper onto the ends of the branches that would shiver and flick-flack in the wind, moose blowers of string drawn tightly across empty tin cans to make eerie bird-frightening sounds, windmills of colored paper that would spin wildly, so that the orchard was a carnival of baubles and shining ribbons and shrieking wires, like a Christmas party in midsummer. And the trees all had names. Belle Yvonne, my mother would say as she passed a gnarled pear tree. Rose d'Aquitane. Beurre du Roe Henry. Her voice at these times was soft, almost monotone. I could not tell whether she was speaking to me or to herself. Conference. Williams. Ghislane de Penthièvre. This sweetness.

I am glad when we enter the conference room that Chihiro made sure I wasn’t late to the meeting. Not only does my appearance cut short several whispered confabs in the corners of the room (confirming her suspicion that people would have used my lateness as a chance to talk about me), but I also get to take my favorite seat: at the far end of the table next to my favorite monkey. I’ve never quite understood how the monkeys got here. The fresco on the ceiling of this room –originally the formal dining room- is modeled on the one in the formal dining room at La Civetta. It depicts a lemon-covered pergola in a garden. An assortment of birds –doves, sparrows, and long-tailed peacocks – roost on the wooden struts. In the original fresco, fat cupids also frolic amidst the greenery, their chubby feet dangling precariously from their perches. In one corner a plaster foot even protrudes from the frescoed surface. In this New York version of the fresco, there are monkeys instead of cupids: monkeys peering out between leafy branches and monkeys dangling by their tails from the wooden slats of the pergola. If you look carefully (and I have had ample opportunity through long and tedious budget reviews to examine every inch of the palatial room), you can even find a few monkeys that have climbed down from the pergola and found their way into the formal dining room to perform rude and unspeakable acts... My favorite monkey, though, is the little one who peers out from behind the leafy fronds of an aspidistra, making an obscene gesture I have seen only on the streets of Italy. I always sit right next to him. He gives me some relief for the sentiments I am unable to express in the course of department meetings.

My morning schedule saw me first in Cannan’s office, conferring with my advisor, but our meeting was interrupted within minutes by Narian, who entered without knocking and whose eyes were colder than I had seen them in a long time. “I thought you intended to control them,” he stated, walking toward the captain’s desk and standing directly beside the chair in which I sat.” He slammed a lengthy piece of parchment down on the wood surface, an unusual amount of tension in his movements. I glanced toward the open door and caught sight of Rava. She stood with one hand resting against the frame, her calculating eyes evaluating the scene while she awaited orders. Cannan’s gaze went to the parchment, but he did not reach for it, scanning its contents from a distance. Then he looked at Narian, unruffled. “I can think of a dozen or more men capable of this.” “But you know who is responsible.” Cannan sat back, assessing his opposition. “I don’t know with certainty any more than you do. In the absence of definitive proof of guilt on behalf of my son and his friends, I suggest you and your fellows develop a sense of humor.” Then the captain’s tone changed, becoming more forbidding. “I can prevent an uprising, Narian. This, you’ll have to get used to.” Not wanting to be in the dark, I snatched up the parchment in question. My mouth opened in shock and dismay as I silently read its contents, the men waiting for me to finish. On this Thirtieth Day of May in the First Year of Cokyrian dominance over the Province of Hytanica, the following regulations shall be put into practice in order to assist our gracious Grand Provost in her effort to welcome Cokyri into our lands--and to help ensure the enemy does not bungle the first victory it has managed in over a century. Regulation One. All Hytanican citizens must be willing to provide aid to aimlessly wandering Cokyrian soldiers who cannot on their honor grasp that the road leading back to the city is the very same road that led them away. Regulation Two. It is strongly recommended that farmers hide their livestock, lest the men of our host empire become confused and attempt to mate with them. Regulation Three. As per negotiated arrangements, crops grown on Hytanican soil will be divided with fifty percent belonging to Cokyri, and seventy-five percent remaining with the citizens of the province; Hytanicans will be bound by law to wait patiently while the Cokyrians attempt to sort the baffling deficiency in their calculations. Regulation Four. The Cokyrian envoys assigned to manage the planting and farming effort will also require Hytanican patience while they slowly but surely learn what is a crop and what is a weed, as well as left from right. Regulation Five. Though the Province Wall is a Cokyrian endeavor, it would be polite and understanding of Hytanicans to remind the enemy of the correct side on which to be standing when the final stone is laid, so no unfortunates may find themselves trapped outside with no way in. Regulation Six. When at long last foreign trade is allowed to resume, Hytanicans should strive to empathize with the reluctance of neighboring kingdoms to enter our lands, for Cokyri’s stench is sure to deter even the migrating birds. Regulation Seven. For what little trade and business we do manage in spite of the odor, the imposed ten percent tax may be paid in coins, sweets or shiny objects. Regulation Eight. It is regrettably prohibited for Hytanicans to throw jeers at Cokyrian soldiers, for fear that any man harried may cry, and the women may spit. Regulation Nine. In case of an encounter with Cokyrian dignitaries, the boy-invader and the honorable High Priestess included, let it be known that the proper way in which to greet them is with an ass-backward bow.

He's the King of all the heavens And all found here below. To Him, your hearts are like this lake Reflecting in His glow.

The Conference of the Birds,

Conference of the Birds inspired some of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales and gave the Swiss the legend of William Tell. Chaucer had been dead for almost a hundred years when the Spanish reconquest of Granada in 1492

Her encouragement and reassurance were constant and extravagant. Once, not seeing her at a public function, he demanded, with something of his old snarl, “Where’s Lady Bird?” and she replied, “Right behind you, darling. Where I’ve always been.” At a conference at which he became agitated, she slipped him a note. “Don’t let anybody upset you. You’ll do the right thing. You’re a good man.

When the ocean tosses and breaks, how can patterns that shimmer on the surface endure? Both worlds are reflected in those patterns dancing on the sea. Deny it and you’re a misguided dreamer.

A city is successful not when it’s rich but when its people are happy. Creating bikeability and walkability shows respect for human dignity. We’re telling people, ‘You are important—not because you’re rich, but because you are human.’ If people are treated as special, as sacred, even, they behave that way. We need to walk just as birds need to fly. Creating public spaces is one way to lead us to a society that is not only more equal but also much happier.” The words are those of Guillermo Peñalosa, whom I met at a conference

bound by the body through looking inward and through purification.

Here, ego does not equal identity. The term used in this book comes from the Latin root, ē'gō, meaning “I,” “the self that feels, acts, or thinks.” It is our lower self, the upholder of self-righteousness and self-proclaimed truths.

The men were thorough sportsmen, loving horse-racing, foot-racing, and gambling. They were graceful winners, and good losers in games of chance. And they were firm believers in luck, and in the medicine conferred in dreams. Men often starved, and even tortured themselves, in preparation for desired medicine-dreams. Then, weakened both physically and mentally by enervating sweat-baths and fatigue, they slipped away alone to some dangerous spot, usually a high mountain-peak, a sheer cliff or a well-worn buffalo-trail that might be traveled at any hour by a vast herd of buffalo; and here, without food, or water, they spent four days and nights (if necessary) trying to dream, appealing to invisible “helpers,” crying aloud to the winds until utter exhaustion brought them sleep, or unconsciousness—and perhaps a medicine-dream. If lucky, some animal or bird appeared to the dreamer, offering counsel and help, nearly always prescribing rules which if followed would lead the dreamer to success in war. Thereafter the bird or animal appearing in the medicine-dream was the dreamer’s medicine. He believed that all the power, the cunning, and the instinctive wisdom, possessed by the appearing bird or animal would forever afterward be his own in time of need. And always thereafter the dreamer carried with him some part of such bird or animal. It was his lucky-piece, a talisman, and he would undertake nothing without it upon his person.

El amor ama las cosas difíciles.

In fact, we owe the expression “pecking order” to studies of the social relations among chickens by the Norwegian zoologist Thorleif Schjelderup-Ebbe, who found that pecking orders are ladderlike, with the top rung conferring great privilege in the form of food and safety, and the bottom rung fraught with vulnerability and risk.

We were now in the frustrating position of having a clear goal

you, please lend him your hand!” The Prophet replied: “Noble soul, go. I have released your sheikh from bondage. Your devotion and beseeching did its work. You did not falter until your sheikh was saved. For a long time, a dark haze lay between the sheikh and the truth. I have lifted that dusty haze from the Path and have raised him from darkness. I have drawn dews from the healing ocean and sprinkled it upon him. The mist has burned off; repentance has descended and sin has perished. Know that a hundred sins dissipate with a single repentance uttered by the mouth. When the ocean of benevolence surges, it washes away the misdeeds of every man and woman.

Faith’s wisdom and knowledge that had been washed away from his consciousness now suddenly flooded back.

I felt like an old cartoon character following the wafting scent of a pie cooling in a window.

the Way, Let him set out – what more is

Because war is a virus.

After all, a pro-imperialist and anti-environmentalist stance is con tent with the church's long history of making strategic alliances v and conferring spiritual blessings on conquistadores and others v raped the land and the indigenous populations of the "new world exploit its resources. This history of conquest may in turn seen follow a tradition that ostensibly began in the Book of Genesis, w God said to the first human beings: "Be fruitful and multiply, and the earth and subdue it; and have dominion over the fish of the and over the birds of the air and over every living thing that mi upon the earth.

Some theologies say it is not an individual but a collective people who bear the image of God. I quite like this, because it means we need a diversity of people to reflect God more fully. Anything less and the image becomes pixelated and grainy, still beautiful but lacking clarity. If God really is three parts in one like they say, it means that God's wholeness is in a multitude. I do not know if God meant to confer value on us by creating us in their own image, but they had to have known it would at least be one outcome. How can anyone who is made to bear likeness to the maker of the cosmos be anything less than glory? This is inherent dignity. I do find it peculiar that humans have come to wield this over the rest of creation as though we are somehow superior. I don't believe this to be the case. Sometimes I wonder if we knelt down and put our ear to the ground, it would whisper up to us, Yes, you were made in the image of God, but God made you of me. We've grown numb to the idea that we ourselves are made of the dust, mysteriously connected to the goodness of the creation that surrounds us. Perhaps the more superior we believe ourselves to be to creation, the less like God we become. But if we embrace shalom—the idea that everything is suspended in a delicate balance between the atoms that make me and the tree and the bird and the sky—if we embrace the beauty of all creation, we find our own beauty magnified. And what is shalom but dignity stretched out like a blanket over the cosmos?

When that last veil is lifted neither men Nor all their glory will be seen again, The universe will fade - this mighty show In all its majesty and pomp will go, And those who loved appearances will prove Each other's enemies and forfeit love, While those who loved the absent, unseen Friend Will enter that pure love which knows no end.

Your breaths are jewels, each atom is a guide To lead you to the Truth, and glorified From head to foot with His great wealth you stand; Oh, if you could entirely understand Your absence from Him, then you would not wait Inured by patience to your wretched fate God nourished you in love and holy pride, But ignorance detains you from His side.

This book is an ornament for the ages. It offers something for both the high and low. If you came sad and frozen to this book, its hidden fire will blaze and melt your ice. Yes, these verses are magic: they grow more potent with each reading. They are like beauty under a veil that reveals its loveliness slowly.

She nodded, a small assent, and I felt a shared recognition flicker between us: of a darkness mutually understood, and of a thin, golden thread of wonder and hope that ran through the fabric of this new world. There is more, it said. There is more to the universe than you ever imagined.

Quando o amor me subjuga o coração, meu canto é como o suspiroso mar.

Chief Justice Rose Bird, concurring with the majority, wrote an opinion scoffing at the dissenters’ defense of pluralism, which she reduced to defending the right of ‘‘wealthy patrons who prefer to confer largess in a sexually discriminatory fashion.’’ Bird saw Ruth Mallery and people like her not as kindly philanthropists trying to aid society as best they know how, but as a contemptible ‘‘select few’’ who wish to be ‘‘insulated from the 20th century.’’ Bird’s intemperate opinion attacking an altruistic elderly widow became an issue in a reelection battle that ultimately cost Bird her seat on the state supreme court.

Ellen White wrote to George Butler, the General Conference president, in 1886: “We are in danger of becoming a sister to fallen Babylon, of allowing our churches to become corrupted, and filled with every foul spirit, a cage for every unclean and hateful bird. ‘” I tell you the truth, Elder Butler, that unless there is a cleansing of the soul temple on the part of many who claim to believe and to preach the truth, God’s judgments, long deferred, will come” (Letter 51, 1886). “If most earnest vigilance is not manifested at the great heart of the work to protect the interests of the cause, the church will become as corrupt as the churches of other denominations” (Testimonies for the Church, vol. 4, p. 513). “The world must not be introduced into the church, and married to the church, forming a bond of unity. Through this means the church will become indeed corrupt, and as stated in Revelation, ‘a cage of every unclean and hateful bird’” (Testimonies to Ministers, p. 265).

The seven planets are freckles...

Yea, my friends, we have a king, whose name is Simurg, and whose residence is behind Mount Caucasus. He is close by, but we are far away from Him. The road to His throne is bestrewn with obstructions; more than a hundred thousand veils of light and darkness screen the throne. Hundreds of thousands of souls burn with an ardent passion to see Him, but no one is able to find his way to Him. Yet none can afford to do without Him. Supreme manliness, absolute fearlessness and complete self-effacement are needed to overcome those obstacles. If we succeed in getting a glimpse of His face, it will be an achievement indeed. If we do not attempt it, and if we fail to greet the Beloved, this life is not worth living.” The

في قرارة كل شخص مــائة خنزير...فإما أن يسفك دم الخنزير، أو أن يعقد الزنار

Ils s’annihilèrent donc, cette fois pour toujours Et l’ombre disparut dans le Soleil, enfin ! Pendant qu’ils cheminaient, la parole régnait Une fois le but atteint, il ne resta plus rien Ni début et ni fin, ni guide, ni chemin Et c’est pourquoi, ici, la parole s’éteint.

From the back of the fish to the moon every atom is a witness to his Being.