Dis Attachment Quotes

Jette mon livre; dis-toi bien que ce n'est là qu'une des mille postures possibles en face de la vie. Cherche la tienne. Ce qu'un autre aurait aussi bien fait que toi, ne le fais pas. Ce qu'un autre aurait aussi bien dit que toi, ne le dis pas, -- aussi bien écrit que toi, ne l'écris pas. Ne t'attache en toi qu'à ce que tu sens qui n'est nulle part ailleurs qu'en toi-même, et crée de toi, impatiemment ou patiemment, ah! le plus irremplaçable des êtres.

Les deux femmes, vêtues de noir, remirent le corps dans le lit de ma sœur, elles jetèrent dessus des fleurs et de l’eau bénite, puis, lorsque le soleil eut fini de jeter dans l’appartement sa lueur rougeâtre et terne comme le regard d’un cadavre, quand le jour eut disparu de dessus les vitres, elles allumèrent deux petites bougies qui étaient sur la table de nuit, s’agenouillèrent et me dirent de prier comme elles. Je priai, oh ! bien fort, le plus qu’il m’était possible ! mais rien… Lélia ne remuait pas ! Je fus longtemps ainsi agenouillé, la tête sur les draps du lit froids et humides, je pleurais, mais bas et sans angoisses ; il me semblait qu’en pensant, en pleurant, en me déchirant l’âme avec des prières et des vœux, j’obtiendrais un souffle, un regard, un geste de ce corps aux formes indécises et dont on ne distinguait rien si ce n’est, à une place, une forme ronde qui devait être La tête, et plus bas une autre qui semblait être les pieds. Je croyais, moi, pauvre naïf enfant, je croyais que la prière pouvait rendre la vie à un cadavre, tant j’avais de foi et de candeur ! Oh ! on ne sait ce qu’a d’amer et de sombre une nuit ainsi passée à prier sur un cadavre, à pleurer, à vouloir faire renaître le néant ! On ne sait tout ce qu’il y a de hideux et d’horrible dans une nuit de larmes et de sanglots, à la lueur de deux cierges mortuaires, entouré de deux femmes aux chants monotones, aux larmes vénales, aux grotesques psalmodies ! On ne sait enfin tout ce que cette scène de désespoir et de deuil vous remplit le cœur : enfant, de tristesse et d’amertume ; jeune homme, de scepticisme ; vieillard, de désespoir ! Le jour arriva. Mais quand le jour commença à paraître, lorsque les deux cierges mortuaires commençaient à mourir aussi, alors ces deux femmes partirent et me laissèrent seul. Je courus après elles, et me traînant à leurs pieds, m’attachant à leurs vêtements : — Ma sœur ! leur dis-je, eh bien, ma sœur ! oui, Lélia ! où est-elle ? Elles me regardèrent étonnées. — Ma sœur ! vous m’avez dit de prier, j’ai prié pour qu’elle revienne, vous m’avez trompé ! — Mais c’était pour son âme ! Son âme ? Qu’est-ce que cela signifiait ? On m’avait souvent parlé de Dieu, jamais de l’âme. Dieu, je comprenais cela au moins, car si l’on m’eût demandé ce qu’il était, eh bien, j’aurais pris La linotte de Lélia, et, lui brisant la tête entre mes mains, j’aurais dit : « Et moi aussi, je suis Dieu ! » Mais l’âme ? l’âme ? qu’est-ce cela ? J’eus la hardiesse de le leur demander, mais elles s’en allèrent sans me répondre. Son âme ! eh bien, elles m’ont trompé, ces femmes. Pour moi, ce que je voulais, c’était Lélia, Lélia qui jouait avec moi sur le gazon, dans les bois, qui se couchait sur la mousse, qui cueillait des fleurs et puis qui les jetait au vent ; c’était Lelia, ma belle petite sœur aux grands yeux bleus, Lélia qui m’embrassait le soir après sa poupée, après son mouton chéri, après sa linotte. Pauvre sœur ! c’était toi que je demandais à grands cris, en pleurant, et ces gens barbares et inhumains me répondaient : « Non, tu ne la reverras pas, tu as prié non pour elle, mais tu as prié pour son âme ! quelque chose d’inconnu, de vague comme un mot d’une langue étrangère ; tu as prié pour un souffle, pour un mot, pour le néant, pour son âme enfin ! » Son âme, son âme, je la méprise, son âme, je la regrette, je n’y pense plus. Qu’est-ce que ça me fait à moi, son âme ? savez-vous ce que c’est que son âme ? Mais c’est son corps que je veux ! c’est son regard, sa vie, c’est elle enfin ! et vous ne m’avez rien rendu de tout cela. Ces femmes m’ont trompé, eh bien, je les ai maudites. Cette malédiction est retombée sur moi, philosophe imbécile qui ne sais pas comprendre un mot sans L’épeler, croire à une âme sans la sentir, et craindre un Dieu dont, semblable au Prométhée d’Eschyle, je brave les coups et que je méprise trop pour blasphémer.

That the overwhelming majority of attempts to supplant the postmodern consist in large measure of attaching a new prefix to the word 'modern' strikes me as a clear indication that we are not yet done with our modernity; and that such a number of new prefixes are being mooted (such as 're-' and 'dis-'; 'alter-' and 'auto-'; 'hyper-' and "meta-'; 'ana-' and 'digi-'; you might also have come across 'geo-' and 'neo-', too?) suggests to me that there is a broadening variety of ways in which we experience or negotiate our modernity - or, alternatively, a broadening awareness that there is, and probably always has been, a variety of modernities. What the newly prefixed modernisms to be found in this anthology suggest to my mind is that what supplants postmodernity is a realization that we never left modernity behind in the first place, and that the discourses seeking to formulate or describe the late twentieth century as an era that was somehow 'post-'modernity amount to little more than half a century of groping down a blind alley.

The conclusion I draw from the writings in this anthology, then, is finally this. That the overwhelming majority of attempts to supplant the postmodern consist in large measure of attaching a new prefix to the word 'modern' strikes me as a clear indication that we are not yet done with our modernity; and that such a number of new prefixes are being mooted (such as 're-' and 'dis-'; 'alter-' and 'auto-'; 'hyper-' and "meta-'; 'ana-' and 'digi-'; you might also have come across 'geo-' and 'neo-', too? suggests to me that there is a broadening variety of ways in which we experience or negotiate our modernity - or, alternatively, a broadening awareness that there is, and probably always has been, a variety of modernities. It was always simplistic to assume that for some reason they all came to an end suddenly, whether that was in May 1968, or when the Pruitt-Igoe housing project was dynamited, or at any other time. By the same token, it is no more sensible to assume that some new modernity was born when the Berlin Wall fell, or when American Airlines flight 1 crashed into the North Tower of the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001, or at some other arbitrarily selected moment of historical significance. Instead, ti might be worth suggesting that - with a nod to Bruno Latour - we have never been postmodern. Hence, I predict that debating the end of postmodernity will ultimately prove futile, but no more and no less futile than debating its origins and its birth. What the newly prefixed modernisms to be found in this anthology suggest to my mind is that what supplants postmodernity is a realization that we never left modernity behind in the first place, and that the discourses seeking to formulate or describe the late twentieth century as an era that was somehow (though there was never much clarity as to h o w 'post-'modernity amount to little more than half a century of groping down a blind alley.

Any discussion of male codependency, even one rooted in early attachment dis-ruption, must address the pressures of the social-norm context for male devel-opment. These pressures are often referred to in the literature as “gender role strain.” Gender role strain in men has been identified as either the failure to fulfill male role expectations or the traumatic fulfillment of these expectations, and their negative consequences. One proposed cause of gender role strain is the early gender role socialization process which begins within the family context and is supported by a larger cultural socialization based on patriarchy.

Hulking piece of rust,” she grumbled, then gave it a little pat on the wheel well as she scooted out between her truck and Hannah’s car. “Can’t let the car gods hear you dis their minions,” she said when she caught Cooper’s amused look. “They’ll strand you in the desert as sure as look at you. Besides, she might be a hulking piece of rusted metal but she’s my hulking piece.” She stopped when she reached her sister and gave her a one-armed hug. “And to what do I owe this pleasure? Cross-examining my afternoon date, are we?” “Maybe,” Hannah said, hugging her back. “Oh, good.” Kerry grinned, rubbing her hands together. “What did you learn?” “Hey, now,” Cooper said, chuckling. “What makes you think I’d give anything up?” “Oh, she’s good,” Kerry told him. “She once talked a tribal chief in Papua New Guinea, out of marrying me to his youngest son.” Cooper looked at Hannah, who just raised an arched brow but didn’t refute the statement. “Well, then, I suppose I’m even more in your debt,” he told Kerry’s oldest sister. “Unless of course the tribe believes in polygamy.” Kerry looked affronted. “You’d share me? Well, well, good to know.” She folded her arms. “So glad we’re having this little chat.” “Oh, no, Starfish, no such luck. You’d be stuck making do with only me. You see, I know a guy who could fly us out of there on his helicopter, and I’m guessing your erstwhile tribal spouse wouldn’t go anywhere near one of those flying birds. I’d spirit you off and--” “And leave my poor first husband brokenhearted and alone? Do I get a say in this?” She looked to her sister. “You’re drawing up my pre-nup, right?” Cooper brightened and clapped his hands together, which earned him an arched brow from Kerry. “Well, while I’m not too thrilled about your attachment to Number One, speaking as Number Two, I will say I’m happy to hear we’re in the negotiation phase.” “Husband Number One is a lot younger,” she said consideringly. “And while he doesn’t have as many head of cattle as you do, he does come with an entire village, and if something happens to his other six brothers, he’ll be chief one day.” She smiled sweetly. “Just saying.” Cooper flashed her a smile that might have been a little too private with her sister standing right there, but what the hell. “Keep in mind, Number Twos traditionally try harder. So I have that going for me.” Hannah looked from Cooper to Kerry, then at both of them, before finally looking at Kerry. “Seriously, marry him before he wises up.” “Hey,” Kerry replied, mock wounded. “And why do you say that?” “You speak the same language.” “Says the woman who communicates with her husband using old movie quotes that nobody gets but the two of you.” Hannah smiled, really smiled, and it transformed her often more serious expression into something truly radiant. “Yes, that’s exactly who’s saying that.” She looked at Cooper. “I have a feeling you and Calder will become fast friends.” “Thank you,” Cooper said, “for both sentiments.

The biography of John Wesley is surely unique. Here is a man born in the first decade of his century, who sees it through into the last; a man so far in reaction from the tendencies of his age that he seems a living commentary on them, yet so much the child of his age that you cannot think of him as fitting in with any other. A High Churchman in his youth, he makes for himself in the unsympathetic surroundings of Oxford an enclave of primitive observance and of ascetic living; such is his personal influence that he seems destined, if that were possible, to shake Oxford out of its long dream. Dis aliter visum; he undergoes an experience of conversion before his lifetime has reached its mid-point. A sensational conversion; the finished product of the schools becomes the disciple of a foreign visitor to our shores, by no means his match in intellect. Thenceforward, he must fight by other methods, and for the most part with other companions, that battle against irreligion to which he has dedicated his youth. He has made his own soul, but the battle is not yet over; he finds himself in conflict with the men who had been his closest comrades in arms, and who still share his own beliefs but exaggerate their emphasis in a degree which he thinks dangerous. A man who once seemed likely to do great things for the Church of England, yet whose influence, on the whole, was to damage her position in the eyes of his contemporaries; a man, nevertheless, who lived to see something of the old bitterness against him die down, whose age was cheered by public recognition at once welcome, unsought, and unexpected. So far, however, there is nothing unique about John Wesley. A careful reperusal of the foregoing paragraph will show that it all applies equally to the career of Cardinal Newman. Wesley and Newman-you might think that some elfin fate had arranged this odd consent between the stars of the two men, just so as to throw into relief the vast difference there was between them. Newman, so sensitive, so warm in his attachments, so revealing in This content downloaded from his literary confidences, Wesley, so unruffled by opposition, so half-hearted in his familiarities, so circumspect in his admissions; Newman, the recluse, Wesley, a lifelong vagabond in the service of his gospel; Newman, painstaking in his judgements, fastidious in his style, Wesley, leaping to infallible conclusions and throwing them at you with the first words that came to hand; Newman, such a child of the Renaissance, Wesley, so fundamentally a Puritan. And, deeper down, Newman the apostle of religious authority, Wesley, a cheerful experimentalist who in all the hesitations of a lifetime never asked himself by what right he ruled, or on what basis of intellectual certainty he believed.

I release the shame, guilt, embarrassment and taboo or stigma that is attached to suffering from post-natal depression. I wear my war wounds proudly in hope that I can shine the light for those women and families who see no way out of the trenches. I speak out in hope of creating change in a condition that is widely misunderstood, to create opportunities for healing holistically and change the current model where women can get lost in the system, and can lose their lives battling this silent and very isolating dis-ease.

Con-Text is the centuries-old city of Islam, a great and sprawling city consisting of various edifices erected for the various purposes of living by Muslims of bygone and present times, made in different forms and out of different materials, in various states of preservation, renovation and disrepair, of wide-ranging functions with different degrees of use and dis-use, with quarters and neighbourhoods inhabited by diverse peoples doing different things—all of which are nonetheless component elements in a part of what is ultimately, for all its citizens, the same shared environment and ecosystem of living and identification. The citizen is the one who lives in a city with which he identifies and affiliates himself—even if the specific constitution of his particular identification with the city may differ from that of another fellow-citizen, and even as what he thinks is good or bad about the city (what he thinks should be knocked down or restored, what should serve as a model for further construction, and what he thinks should be abandoned) might differ from that of a fellow-citizen. As the citizen moves about the city, its diverse component elements invoke and provoke in him different responses of orientation, narration and attachment; yet, he recognizes these edifices—even the ones he does not like—as edifices of this city. And even if some edifices are at some point destroyed, they remain in the memory (until such time as they are forgotten) as edifices of this city, as a part and parcel of its history and of the meanings that its name evokes.

What is peer orientation? Orientation, the drive to get one's bearings and become acquainted with one's surroundings, is a fundamental human instinct and need. Dis-orientation is one of the least bearable of all psychological experiences. Attachment and orientation are inextricably intertwined. Humans and other creatures automatically orient themselves by seeking cues from those to whom they are attached. Children, like the young of any warm-blooded species, have an innate orienting instinct: they need to get their sense of direction from somebody. Just as a magnet turns automatically toward the North Pole, so children have an inborn need to find their bearings by turning toward a source of authority, contact, and warmth. Children cannot endure the lack of such a figure in their lives: they become disoriented. They cannot endure what I call an orientation void. The parent, or any adult acting as parent substitute, is the nature-intended pole of orientation for the child, just as adults are the orienting influences in the lives of all animals that rear their young. It so happens that this orienting instinct of humans is much like the imprinting instinct of a duckling. Hatched from the egg, the duckling immediately imprints on the mother duck — he will follow her around, heeding her example and her directions until he grows into mature independence. That is how nature would prefer it, of course. In the absence of the mother duck, however, the duckling will begin to follow the nearest moving object—a human being, a dog, or even a mechanical toy. Needless to say, neither the human, the dog, nor the toy are as well suited as the mother duck to raise that duckling to successful adult duckhood. Likewise, if no parenting adult is available, the human child will orient to whomever is near. Social, economic, and cultural trends in the past five or six decades have displaced the parent from his intended position as the orienting influence on the child. The peer group has moved into this orienting void, with deplorable results.