Dilemma Of A Ghost Quotes

Even I knew better than to sleep with a ghost. And it was the wrong time for a moral dilemma.

There are two parts to the human dilemma. One is the belief that the end justifies the means. That push-button philosophy, that deliberate deafness to suffering, has become the monster in the war machine. The other is the betrayal of the human spirit: the assertion of dogma that closes the mind, and turns a nation, a civilization, into a regiment of ghosts--obedient ghosts or tortured ghosts.

From time to time I have come across personalities stuck in dilemmas. They were so enmeshed into the pain or drama that even death did not ease the pain. Ghosts are earthbound, with some issue or trouble holding them down. Surprisingly, sometimes this wayward journey was experienced before and after death.

She said to herself: 'Is not the gown the natural raiment of extremity? What nation, what religion, what ghost, what dream has not worn it—infants, angels, priests, the dead; why—should not the doctor, in the grave dilemma of his alchemy, wear his dress?' She thought: 'He dresses to lie beside himself, who is so constructed that love, for him, can be only something special; in a room that giving back evidence of his occupancy, is as mauled as the last agony.

Oh, come on, you’ve been ghosting me so hard that Casper would be jealous of your skills.

When the brain is diseased, the functions that become pathological are the person’s emotional life, thought processes and behaviour. And this creates addiction’s central dilemma: if recovery is to occur, the brain, the impaired organ of decision making, needs to initiate its own healing process. An altered and dysfunctional brain must decide that it wants to overcome its own dysfunction: to revert to normal—or, perhaps, become normal for the very first time. The worse the addiction is, the greater the brain abnormality and the greater the biological obstacles to opting for health.

These stories are real, the dreams are real, yet the dilemmas each person faces are founded on the presences that haunt from their past. We see again the twin mechanisms present in all relationships: projection and transference. Each of them, meeting any stranger, reflexively scans the data of history for clues, expectations, possibilities. This scanning mechanism is instantaneous, mostly unconscious, and then the lens of history slips over one's eyes. This refractive lens alters the reality of the other and brings to consciousness a necessarily distorted picture. Attached to that particular lens is a particular history, the dynamics, the script, the outcomes of which are part of the transferred package. Freud once humorously speculated that when a couple goes to bed there are six people jammed together because the spectral presences of the parents are unavoidable. One would have to add to this analogy the reminder that those parents also import their own relational complexes from their parents, so we quickly have fourteen underfoot, not to mention the persistence of even more ancestral influences. How could intimate relationships not be congested arenas? As shopworn as the idea seems, we cannot overemphasize the importance of primal imagoes playing a domineering role in our relational patterns. They may be unconscious, which grants them inordinate power, or we may flee them, but they are always present. Thus, for example, wherever the parent is stuck—such as Damon's mother who only equates sexuality with the perverse and the unappealing, and his father who stands de-potentiated and co-opted—so the child will feel similarly constrained or spend his or her life trying to break away (“anything but that”) and still be defined by someone else's journey. How could Damon not feel depressed, then, at his own stuckness, and how could he not approach intimacy with such debilitating ambivalence?

Let us have peace." But there was the black man looming like a dark ghost on the horizon. He was the child of force and greed, and the father of wealth and war. His labor was indispensable, and the loss of it would have cost many times the cost of the war. If the Negro has been silent, his very presence would have announced his plight. He was not silence. He was in usual evidence. He was writing petitions, making speeches, parading with returned soldiers, reciting his adventures as slave and freeman. Even dumb and still, he must be noticed. His poverty has to be relieved, and emancipation in his case had to mean poverty. If he had to work, he had to have land and tools. If his labor was in reality to be free labor, he had to have legal freedom and civil rights. His ignorance could only be removed by that very education which the law of the South had long denied him and the custom of the North had made exceedingly difficult. Thus civil status and legal freedom, food, clothes and tools, access to land and help to education, were the minimum demands of four million laborers, and these demands no man could ignore, Northerner or Southerner, Abolitionist or Copperhead, laborer or captain of industry. How did the nation face this paradox and dilemma?

In any disease, say smoking-induced lung or heart disease, organs and tissues are damaged and function in pathological ways. When the brain is diseased, the functions that become pathological are the person’s emotional life, thought processes and behaviour. And this creates addiction’s central dilemma: if recovery is to occur, the brain, the impaired organ of decision making, needs to initiate its own healing process. An altered and dysfunctional brain must decide that it wants to overcome its own dysfunction: to revert to normal — or, perhaps, become normal for the very first time. The worse the addiction is, the greater the brain abnormality and the greater the biological obstacles to opting for health. The scientific literature is nearly unanimous in viewing drug addiction as a chronic brain condition, and this alone ought to discourage anyone from blaming or punishing the sufferer. No one, after all, blames a person suffering from rheumatoid arthritis for having a relapse, since relapse is one of the characteristics of chronic illness. The very concept of choice appears less clear-cut if we understand that the addict’s ability to choose, if not absent, is certainly impaired. “The evidence for addiction as a different state of the brain has important treatment implications,” writes Dr. Charles O’Brien. “Unfortunately,” he adds, “most health care systems continue to treat addiction as an acute disorder, if at all.

Early in her career, Muse engaged her skills for technical purposes, such as document translation and schematic visualizations for government entities. She continued to write and paint poetically, in secret, using her pen name, Muse. An inner compass is evident in her work. Pieces reflect both past and present dilemmas; while showcasing her victories in overcoming these obstacles ~ all from her faith based perspective. Light touches of modernism play hand in hand with old world strokes, offering highly visceral readings.

You do more than squeak. You purr like a sind's whelp. You yowl a little, too, at exactly the right moments." Gerry caught Ghost's mouth in a deeper kiss. Gerry's breath was warm against Ghost's cheek as he spoke. "You blush and you growl. I want to keep you like you are just then. All smooth, bare skin and pink cheeks. Your eyes shining up at me brighter than your witchmark.

You're the first male witch in generations. You count for something. Your presence will be recorded by the witchsisters. Even though some of them hate you and would love to feed you to a lair full of hungry sind." Gerry's eyes held humor. "There are far more who'll make sure everyone remembers how the Witch taught Ghost, a witch and a seer, and a man of honor. I hope they mention your beautiful spiral. Those stones which glow when you're working your magic, but which never shine brighter than your eyes.

If you leave with me, they'll say we both ran away," Ghost said, his voice muffled in Gerry's cloak. "If you're here, they might believe I'll come back. Please, Gerry. I need to go alone. We talked about this. You said you would let me go if I needed to. I need you to be strong enough to let me leave.

Your tests are not over, Ghost of the Heartlands, Ghost of the witchsisters." Bruadar's voice rang like the voices in Ghost's visions, and despite the warmth of the fire, Ghost's spine turned to ice. "Ask the one who taught you. The witches count in threes. Twice you met death, and twice you earned a name. One more test waits for you.

Next time, you're coming with me," Ghost mumbled into Gerry's neck, listening to the comfortable thrum of Gerry's pulse. "Next time?" Gerry sounded amused, and Ghost lifted his head to peer at Gerry. "Only if I get to pick where we go. The Northlands? Way too cold for me, even with a hot-blooded mate like mine." Gerry's lips muffled Ghost's laughing protest. Ghost settled in his arms. They exchanged soft kisses for a while until Ghost's head fell back against the pillows. Gerry's humming filled his ears and heart as he drifted off to sleep.

Her eyes meet mine. “What exactly do you want, Rider?” My throat feels tight. I take a breath. For some crazy reason, I feel like I’m trying to throw for a touchdown. “Just… I need us to be friends again. I miss you, Gabby, and I regret how I treated you. And with everything with Poppy, I’m being reminded of how amazing you are.” I shrug. “I miss our friendship. Don’t you?” My heart feels like it’s gonna beat out of my chest with that confession. “And that’s all you want?” she asks warily. “Friendship?” Yes. No. Fuck, I don’t know. “That’s all I have time for right now.” Do I miss our friendship? Absolutely. Do I want to fuck her until I can’t walk anymore? Definitely. Can I handle anything beyond sex right now while I juggle all the other shit in my life? Probably not. So yeah, I guess I’d better keep my damn hands to myself. “And you’re not going to ghost me again?” she asks. The vulnerability in her voice kills me, and I reach for her hand again. “Because it sucked to open up to you about being in foster care only for you to disappear on me.” I close my eyes. Christ. No wonder she thinks I’m a douchebag. “I promise I won’t disappear again. You’re officially stuck with me now.

You're this village's witch, even if you're my Ghost. I can't hold you back from what you need to do.

Nietzsche's feelings of being dirty and his need for self-purification, combined with seeing humans as a 'polluted river', mentioned before, is not surprising, in light of the hypothesized sexual abuse from childhood. Given this, his lack of trust in people 'accepting and eating a meal in whose cuisine one has no confidence', his fear of getting hurt again in close relationships is understandable. Nietzsche compared 'close proximity to a person' to touching a good etching with one's fingers, and by so doing, dirtying and losing its beauty 'A human being's soul is likewise worn down by continual touching'. It seemed to him that one always loses in being in too intimate a relationship with women and friends 'sometimes one loses the pearl of his life in the process'. This trauma-ridden person was only defending himself. Adopting the role of a hermit, was one defense, but there were also others mentioned by him, such as using roles (dresses), disguise (masks) and disappearance. He put a chair at the door to avoid intrusions and played 'ghost' not responding , hiding, and making people afraid of him. He felt and played dead as if he was already posthumous. Still being human (all too human), Nietzsche needed love too. Hence his dilemma, which he called 'from the land of cannibals' 'In solitude the solitary man consumes himself, in the crowd the crowds consumes him, Now choose'.

That we are rational agents—that a great many of our actions are not merely the results of serial physiological urges but are instead dictated by coherent conceptual connections and private deliberations—is one of those primordial data I mentioned above that cannot be reduced to some set of purely mechanical functions without producing nonsense. That a number of cognitive scientists should be exerting themselves to tear down the Cartesian partition between body and soul, hoping to demonstrate that there is no Wonderful Wizard on the other side pulling the levers, is poignant proof that our mechanistic paradigms trap much of our thinking about mind and body within an absurd dilemma: we must believe either in a ghost mysteriously animating a machine or in a machine miraculously generating a ghost. Premodern thought allowed for a far less restricted range of conceptual possibilities.