Eres Arte Quotes

Quizá la clave para volver a sentir que eres tú mismo es aceptar que ya no eres la misma persona que eras antes, y eso no tiene por qué ser algo malo.

I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart, As a man calls for wine before he fights, I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights, Ere fitly I could hope to play my part. Think first, fight afterwards, the soldier’s art: One taste of the old time sets all to rights.

As he offered to advance, she exclaimed, "Remain where thou art, proud Templar, or at thy choice advance!--one foot nearer, and I plunge myself from the precipice; my body shall be crushed out of the very form of humanity upon the stones of that courtyard ere it become the victim of thy brutality!

Ere I was old? Ah woeful Ere, Which tells me, Youth's no longer here! O Youth! for years so many and sweet, 'Tis known that Thou and I were one, I'll think it but a fond conceit-- It cannot be that Thou art gone!

God speed fair Helena! whither away? HELENA Call you me fair? that fair again unsay. Demetrius loves your fair: O happy fair! Your eyes are lode-stars; and your tongue's sweet air More tuneable than lark to shepherd's ear, When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear. Sickness is catching: O, were favour so, Yours would I catch, fair Hermia, ere I go; My ear should catch your voice, my eye your eye, My tongue should catch your tongue's sweet melody. Were the world mine, Demetrius being bated, The rest I'd give to be to you translated. O, teach me how you look, and with what art You sway the motion of Demetrius' heart. HERMIA I frown upon him, yet he loves me still. HELENA O that your frowns would teach my smiles such skill! HERMIA I give him curses, yet he gives me love. HELENA O that my prayers could such affection move! HERMIA The more I hate, the more he follows me. HELENA The more I love, the more he hateth me. HERMIA His folly, Helena, is no fault of mine. HELENA None, but your beauty: would that fault were mine!

Prefiere estar loco igual que todos, y no cuerdo y solitario. Así dicen los políticos, con toda razón. Que si todos son locos, tú no saldrás perdiendo por estarlo. Si eres el único cuerdo, te acusarán de loco. Por iso es importante seguir la corrente de la gente. Muchas veces, la mayor sabiduría consiste en no saber, o aparentar no saber. Has de vivir con la gente, y la mayoría son ignorantes.

¿No entiendes la comparación? Tú eres mi agua Perrier. —Se dejó caer un poco más sobre ella—. Hacer el amor contigo es lo único que sacia mi sed. ¿Por qué iba a cambiarlo por toda el agua del mar? —Gabriel le presionó las caderas con las suyas—. Ella no puede ofrecerme nada que me interese. —Bajó la cara hasta que sus narices se rozaron—. Y tú eres preciosa. Cada parte de tu cuerpo es una obra de arte, desde la cabeza hasta los dedos de los pies. Eres la Venus y la Beatriz de Botticelli. ¿Tienes idea de lo mucho que te adoro? Te adueñaste de mi corazón la primera vez que te vi, a los diecisiete años.

Yo no sé ni siquiera que el agua está compuesta por oxígeno e hidrógeno, y estas [se refiere a sus hijas, sus mordaces críticos] me echan a la cara que las lunas salen del este. ¿Pero qué me importan si las lunas salen del oeste o del este, si en Marte llueve o no llueve? Yo no proporciono breviarios a los matemáticos y a los físicos. Pero un escritor de ciencia ficción, contestan, tiene que saber ciertas cosas. Bien. Toda la vida llamándome escritor de ciencia ficción, y aún no he entendido lo que significa. Desde hace algún tiempo me llaman escritor de la Era Espacial. Suena algo más respetable, pero tampoco entiendo qué significa. Solamente, el que hace 20 años todos se burlaban de mí. ‘Pero qué ridículo eres’, decían, ‘absurdo’. ‘¿Qué quiere decir astronauta? ¿Qué quiere decir cosmopuerto, ir a la Luna? ¡Eres tonto!’ Luego, de pronto, explota la Era Espacial, y se realiza lo que escribía. Pero no se arrepienten, no piden disculpas, siguen diciendo ‘No es una obra de arte la suya, es cinerama. Bien, ¿qué es el cinerama? ¿Quién inventó el cinerama sino el viejo Mike, Michelangelo en resumen? ¿No la hizo él La Capilla Sixtina? ¿Y qué otra cosa es La Capilla Sixtina sino cinerama en pintura? Y si el viejo Michelangelo pintaba en cinerama, ¿por qué yo no puedo escribir el futuro en ciencia ficción? La ciencia ficción me sirve para interpretar el tiempo en que vivo, en que vivirán los hijos de mis hijos, para describir sus amenazas.

Annunciation Salvation to all that will is nigh; That All, which always is all everywhere, Which cannot sin, and yet all sins must bear, Which cannot die, yet cannot choose but die, Lo, faithful virgin, yields Himself to lie In prison, in thy womb; and though He there Can take no sin, nor thou give, yet He will wear, Taken from thence, flesh, which death's force may try. Ere by the spheres time was created, thou Wast in His mind, who is thy Son and Brother; Whom thou conceivst, conceived; yea thou art now Thy Maker's maker, and thy Father's mother; Thou hast light in dark, and shuts in little room, Immensity cloistered in thy dear womb.

Now the general who wins a battle makes many calculations in his temple ere the battle is fought. The general who loses a battle makes but few calculations beforehand. Thus do many calculations lead to victory, and few calculations to defeat: how much more no calculation at all! It is by attention to this point that I can foresee who is likely to win or lose.

Sweet for a little even to fear, and sweet, O love, to lay down fear at love’s fair feet; Shall not some fiery memory of his breath Lie sweet on lips that touch the lips of death? Yet leave me not; yet, if thou wilt, be free; Love me no more, but love my love of thee. Love where thou wilt, and live thy life; and I, One thing I can, and one love cannot—die. Pass from me; yet thine arms, thine eyes, thine hair, Feed my desire and deaden my despair. Yet once more ere time change us, ere my cheek Whiten, ere hope be dumb or sorrow speak, Yet once more ere thou hate me, one full kiss; Keep other hours for others, save me this. Yea, and I will not (if it please thee) weep, Lest thou be sad; I will but sigh, and sleep. Sweet, does death hurt? thou canst not do me wrong: I shall not lack thee, as I loved thee, long. Hast thou not given me above all that live Joy, and a little sorrow shalt not give? What even though fairer fingers of strange girls Pass nestling through thy beautiful boy’s curls As mine did, or those curled lithe lips of thine Meet theirs as these, all theirs come after mine; And though I were not, though I be not, best, I have loved and love thee more than all the rest. O love, O lover, loose or hold me fast, I had thee first, whoever have thee last; Fairer or not, what need I know, what care? To thy fair bud my blossom once seemed fair. Why am I fair at all before thee, why At all desired? seeing thou art fair, not I. I shall be glad of thee, O fairest head, Alive, alone, without thee, with thee, dead; I shall remember while the light lives yet, And in the night-time I shall not forget. Though (as thou wilt) thou leave me ere life leave, I will not, for thy love I will not, grieve; Not as they use who love not more than I, Who love not as I love thee though I die; And though thy lips, once mine, be oftener prest To many another brow and balmier breast, And sweeter arms, or sweeter to thy mind, Lull thee or lure, more fond thou wilt not find.

Recuerda que cada persona tiene su propio mundo su propia historia; descubrirlos y compartirlos es una gran alimento para el alma" "Si te amas, vas a encontrar el amor. Acéptate como eres lo que no se acepta no se puede transformar. Y la vida es una transformación constante

21.  If he is secure at all points, be prepared for him. If he is in superior strength, evade him. 22.  If your opponent is of choleric temper, seek to irritate him. Pretend to be weak, that he may grow arrogant. [Wang Tzu, quoted by Tu Yu, says that the good tactician plays with his adversary as a cat plays with a mouse, first feigning weakness and immobility, and then suddenly pouncing upon him.] 23.  If he is taking his ease, give him no rest. [This is probably the meaning though Mei Yao-ch’en has the note: “while we are taking our ease, wait for the enemy to tire himself out.” The YU LAN has “Lure him on and tire him out.”] If his forces are united, separate them. [Less plausible is the interpretation favored by most of the commentators: “If sovereign and subject are in accord, put division between them.”] 24.  Attack him where he is unprepared, appear where you are not expected. 25.  These military devices, leading to victory, must not be divulged beforehand. 26.  Now the general who wins a battle makes many calculations in his temple ere the battle is fought. [Chang Yu tells us that in ancient times it was customary for a temple to be set apart for the use of a general who was about to take the field, in order that he might there elaborate his plan of campaign.] The general who loses a battle makes but few calculations beforehand. Thus do many calculations lead to victory, and few calculations to defeat: how much more no calculation at all! It is by attention to this point that I can foresee who is likely to win or lose.

A torch for me: let wantons light of heart Tickle the senseless rushes with their heels, For I am proverb’d with a grandsire phrase; I’ll be a candle-holder, and look on. The game was ne’er so fair, and I am done. MERCUTIO: Tut, dun’s the mouse, the constable’s own word: If thou art dun, we’ll draw thee from the mire Of this sir-reverence love, wherein thou stick’st Up to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, ho! ROMEO: Nay, that’s not so. MERCUTIO: I mean, sir, in delay We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day. Take our good meaning, for our judgement sits Five times in that ere once in our five wits. ROMEO: And we mean well in going to this mask; But ’tis no wit to go. MERCUTIO: Why, may one ask? ROMEO: I dream’d a dream to-night. MERCUTIO: And so did I. ROMEO: Well, what was yours? MERCUTIO: That dreamers often lie. ROMEO: In bed asleep, while they do dream things true. MERCUTIO: O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you. She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes.

I beheld before me an animated Corse. Her countenance was long and haggard; Her cheeks and lips were bloodless; The paleness of death was spread over her features, and her eye-balls fixed stedfastly upon me were lustreless and hollow. I gazed upon the Spectre with horror too great to be described. My blood was frozen in my veins. I would have called for aid, but the sound expired, ere it could pass my lips. My nerves were bound up in impotence, and I remained in the same attitude inanimate as a Statue. The visionary Nun looked upon me for some minutes in silence: There was something petrifying in her regard. At length in a low sepulchral voice She pronounced the following words. "Raymond! Raymond! Thou art mine! Raymond! Raymond! I am thine! In thy veins while blood shall roll, I am thine! Thou art mine! Mine thy body! Mine thy soul!---

Ancient person, for whom I All the flattering youth defy, Long be it ere thou grow old, Aching, shaking, crazy, cold; But still continue as thou art, Ancient person of my heart.

La gente confía en ti cuando estás informado, eres competente, piensas en grande y creas situaciones de valor seguro.

Now the general who wins a battle makes many calculations in his temple ere the battle is fought.

Si no eres humilde, la vida se encargará de presentarte a la humildad”.

Eres una obra de arte. —Hizo una pausa—. Me encantaría clavarte a la pared.

Librar un obstáculo sólo indica que eres digno de más. El mundo parece arrojártelos a manos llenas en cuanto sabe que puedes soportarlos. Lo cual es bueno, porque mejoramos con cada intento.

Creo en la raza -exclamó. La raza representa el triunfo de los arribistas. Eso significa progreso. La decadencia me fascina más. -¿Y dónde dejas el arte? -preguntó ella. -Es una enfermedad. -¿El amor? -Una ilusión. -¿La religión? -El sucedáneo elegante de la fe. -Eres un escéptico. -¡Jamás! El escepticismo es el comienzo de la fe. -¿Qué eres entonces? -Definir es limitar.

Art thou gone so, love, lord, ay husband, friend? I must hear from thee every day in the hour, For in a minute there are many days. O, by this count I shall be much in years Ere I again behold my Romeo!

Un día, al ensayar una escena de El jardín de los cerezos, su maestro de actuación, Michael Chekhov, le preguntó: “¿Pensabas en sexo mientras hicimos esta escena?”. Ella contestó que no, y él continuó: “En toda la escena no dejé de recibir vibraciones sexuales de ti. Como si fueras una mujer en las garras de la pasión. […] Ahora entiendo tu problema con tu estudio, Marilyn. Eres una mujer que emite vibraciones sexuales, hagas o pienses lo que sea.

To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty, and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;— Go forth, under the open sky, and list To Nature’s teachings, while from all around— Earth and her waters, and the depths of air— Comes a still voice— Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix for ever with the elements, To be a brother to the insensible rock And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings, The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,—the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between; The venerable woods—rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old Ocean’s gray and melancholy waste,— Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom.—Take the wings Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, Save his own dashings—yet the dead are there: And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep—the dead reign there alone. So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw In silence from the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glide away, the sons of men, The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron and maid, The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man— Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, By those, who in their turn shall follow them. So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, which moves To that mysterious realm, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

No hay especialista que, con sus análisis y terapias, pueda liberarte del sufrimiento humano. Salvarse es el arte de vivir, y este arte se aprende viviendo. Y nadie puede vivir por ti; eres tú mismo el que puede y debe salvarse

Most men seem to live for themselves, without much or any regard for thy glory, or for the good of others; They earnestly desire and eagerly pursue the riches, honor, and pleasures of this life, as if they supposed that wealth, greatness, merriment, could make their immortal souls happy; But, alas, what false delusive dreams are these! And how miserable ere long will those be that sleep in them, for all out happiness consists in loving thee and being holy as thou art holy.

¿Y dónde dejas el arte? —preguntó ella. —Es una enfermedad. —¿El amor? —Una ilusión. —¿La religión? —El sucedáneo elegante de la fe. —Eres un escéptico. —¡Jamás! El escepticismo es el comienzo de la fe. —¿Qué eres entonces? —Definir es limitar.

-¿Sabes lo que es el negro?- -¿La ausencia de color?- -Es la ausencia de luz, pero también puede conseguirse mezclando los tres colores primarios. Creo que hay algo especial en eso; en como el mundo puede creer que no eres nada cuando en realidad eres muchas coas a la vez.-

Si solo eres capaz de asegurar la victoria tras enfrentarte a un adversario en un conflicto armado, esa victoria es una dura victoria. Si eres capaz de ver lo sutil y de darte cuenta de lo oculto, irrumpiendo antes del orden de la batalla, la victoria así obtenida es una victoria fácil.

Then let not winter's ragged hand deface,   In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd:   Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place   With beauty's treasure ere it be self-kill'd.   That use is not forbidden usury,   Which happies those that pay the willing loan;   That's for thy self to breed another thee,   Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;   Ten times thy self were happier than thou art,   If ten of thine ten times refigur'd thee:   Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart,   Leaving thee living in posterity?     Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair     To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.

Have I not reason, beldams as you are, Saucy and overbold? How did you dare To trade and traffic with Macbeth In riddles and affairs of death; And I, the mistress of your charms, The close contriver of all harms, Was never call'd to bear my part, Or show the glory of our art? And, which is worse, all you have done Hath been but for a wayward son, Spiteful and wrathful, who, as others do, Loves for his own ends, not for you. But make amends now: get you gone, And at the pit of Acheron Meet me i' the morning: thither he Will come to know his destiny: Your vessels and your spells provide, Your charms and every thing beside. I am for the air; this night I'll spend Unto a dismal and a fatal end: Great business must be wrought ere noon: Upon the corner of the moon There hangs a vaporous drop profound; I'll catch it ere it come to ground: And that distill'd by magic sleights Shall raise such artificial sprites As by the strength of their illusion Shall draw him on to his confusion: He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear He hopes 'bove wisdom, grace and fear: And you all know, security Is mortals' chiefest enemy. Music and a song within: 'Come away, come away,' & c Hark! I am call'd; my little spirit, see, Sits in a foggy cloud, and stays for me.

Look thee, 'tis so! Thou singly honest man, Here, take: the gods out of my misery Have sent thee treasure. Go, live rich and happy; But thus condition'd: thou shalt build from men; Hate all, curse all, show charity to none, But let the famish'd flesh slide from the bone, Ere thou relieve the beggar; give to dogs What thou deny'st to men; let prisons swallow 'em, Debts wither 'em to nothing; be men like blasted woods, And may diseases lick up their false bloods! And so farewell and thrive. FLAVIUS O, let me stay, And comfort you, my master. TIMON If thou hatest curses, Stay not; fly, whilst thou art blest and free: Ne'er see thou man, and let me ne'er see thee.

XII. If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk Above its mates, the head was chopped, the bents Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to baulk All hope of greenness? Tis a brute must walk Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents. XIII. As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood. One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare, Stood stupified, however he came there: Thrust out past service from the devil's stud! XIV. Alive? he might be dead for aught I knew, With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain. And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane; Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe; I never saw a brute I hated so; He must be wicked to deserve such pain. XV. I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart, As a man calls for wine before he fights, I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights, Ere fitly I could hope to play my part. Think first, fight afterwards, the soldier's art: One taste of the old time sets all to rights. XVI. Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face Beneath its garniture of curly gold, Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold An arm to mine to fix me to the place, The way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace! Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold. XVII. Giles then, the soul of honour - there he stands Frank as ten years ago when knighted first, What honest man should dare (he said) he durst. Good - but the scene shifts - faugh! what hangman hands Pin to his breast a parchment? His own bands Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst! XVIII. Better this present than a past like that: Back therefore to my darkening path again! No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain. Will the night send a howlet or a bat? I asked: when something on the dismal flat Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train. XIX. A sudden little river crossed my path As unexpected as a serpent comes. No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms; This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath For the fiend's glowing hoof - to see the wrath Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes. XX. So petty yet so spiteful! All along, Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it; Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit Of mute despair, a suicidal throng: The river which had done them all the wrong, Whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit. XXI. Which, while I forded - good saints, how I feared To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek, Each step, of feel the spear I thrust to seek For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard! - It may have been a water-rat I speared, But, ugh! it sounded like a baby's shriek. XXII. Glad was I when I reached the other bank. Now for a better country. Vain presage! Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage, Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank soil to a plash? Toads in a poisoned tank Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage - XXIII. The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque, What penned them there, with all the plain to choose? No footprint leading to that horrid mews, None out of it. Mad brewage set to work Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the Turk Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews.

Scene I. A little dark Parlour in Boston: Guards standing at the door. Hazlerod, Crusty Crowbar, Simple Sapling, Hateall, and Hector Mushroom. Simple. I know not what to think of these sad times, The people arm'd,—and all resolv'd to die Ere they'll submit.—— Crusty Crowbar. I too am almost sick of the parade Of honours purchas'd at the price of peace. Simple. Fond as I am of greatness and her charms, Elate with prospects of my rising name, Push'd into place,—a place I ne'er expected, My bounding heart leapt in my feeble breast. And ecstasies entranc'd my slender brain.— But yet, ere this I hop'd more solid gains, As my low purse demands a quick supply.— Poor Sylvia weeps,—and urges my return To rural peace and humble happiness, As my ambition beggars all her babes. Crusty. When first I listed in the desp'rate cause, And blindly swore obedience to his will, So wise, so just, so good I thought Rapatio, That if salvation rested on his word I'd pin my faith, and risk my hopes thereon. Hazlerod. Any why not now?—What staggers thy belief? Crusty. Himself—his perfidy appears— It is too plain he has betray'd his country; And we're the wretched tools by him mark'd out To seal its ruins—tear up the ancient forms, And every vestige treacherously destroy, Nor leave a trait of freedom in the land. Nor did I think hard fate wou'd call me up From drudging o'er my acres, Treading the glade, and sweating at the plough, To dangle at the tables of the great; At bowls and cards to spend my frozen years; To sell my friends, my country, and my conscience; Profane the sacred sabbaths of my God; Scorn'd by the very men who want my aid To spread distress o'er this devoted people. Hazlerod. Pho—what misgivings—why these idle qualms, This shrinking backwards at the bugbear conscience; In early life I heard the phantom nam'd, And the grave sages prate of moral sense Presiding in the bosom of the just; Or planting thongs about the guilty heart. Bound by these shackles, long my lab'ring mind, Obscurely trod the lower walks of life, In hopes by honesty my bread to gain; But neither commerce, or my conjuring rods, Nor yet mechanics, or new fangled drills, Or all the iron-monger's curious arts, Gave me a competence of shining ore, Or gratify'd my itching palm for more; Till I dismiss'd the bold intruding guest, And banish'd conscience from my wounded breast. Crusty. Happy expedient!—Could I gain the art, Then balmy sleep might sooth my waking lids, And rest once more refresh my weary soul.

...atribuida entre otros a Machado, «si eres capaz de explicar lo que pasa en tu calle, serás capaz de explicar el mundo». En ocasiones creemos que lo que merece ser pintado, escrito, filmado, contado, es lo que sucede a miles de kilómetros, en algún lugar exótico o en una gran urbe, cuando la vida, tal como es de verdad, está al alcance de nuestra vista. Solo hace falta saber mirar. Y eso, en ocasiones, es lo más difícil.

I sware unto you my furtherance if I prevailed. But now is mine army passed away as wax wasteth before the fire, and I wait the dark ferryman who tarrieth for no man. Yet, since never have I wrote mine obligations in sandy but in marble memories, and since victory is mine, receive these gifts: and first thou, O Brandoch Daha, my sword, since before thou wast of years eighteen thou wast accounted the mightiest among men-at-arms. Mightily may it avail thee, as me in time gone by. And unto thee, O Spitfire, I give this cloak. Old it is, yet may it stand thee in good stead, since this virtue it hath that he who weareth it shall not fall alive into the hand of his enemies. Wear it for my sake. But unto thee, O Juss, give I no gift, for rich thou art of all good gifts: only my good will give I unto thee, ere earth gape for me." ... So they fared back to the spy-fortalice, and night came down on the hills. A great wind moaning out of the hueless west tore the clouds as a ragged garment, revealing the lonely moon that fled naked betwixt them. As the Demons looked backward in the moonlight to where Zeldornius stood gazing on the dead, a noise as of thunder made the firm land tremble and drowned the howling of the wind. And they beheld how earth gaped for Zeldornius.

Thou doubtest because thou lovest the truth. Some would willingly believe life but a phantasm, if only it might for ever afford them a world of pleasant dreams: thou art not of such! Be content for a while not to know surely. The hour will come, and that ere long, when, being true, thou shalt behold the very truth, and doubt will be for ever dead. Scarce, then, wilt thou be able to recall the features of the phantom. Thou wilt then know that which thou canst not now dream. Thou hast not yet looked the Truth in the face, hast as yet at best but seen him through a cloud. That which thou seest not, and never didst see save in a glass darkly—that which, indeed, never can be known save by its innate splendour shining straight into pure eyes—that thou canst not but doubt, and art blameless in doubting until thou seest it face to face, when thou wilt no longer be able to doubt it.

—¿Sabes para qué vale la mayor parte del adiestramiento militar, Artes? —continuó—. ¿Todos esos gritos que pegan los mierdecillas como Strappi? Todo sirve para que cuando te lo manden seas capaz de clavarle la espada a un pobre cabrón que es igual que tú pero resulta que lleva el uniforme equivocado. Él es como tú y tú eres como él. En realidad ni él te quiere matar a ti ni tú lo quieres matar a él. Pero si no lo matas primero, él te mata a ti. A eso se reduce todo. No es fácil hacerlo sin entrenamiento.

But were this world ever so perfect a production, it must still remain uncertain whether all the excellences of the work can justly be ascribed to the workman. If we survey a ship, what an exalted idea must we form of the ingenuity of the carpenter who framed so complicated, useful, and beautiful a machine? And what surprise must we feel when we find him a stupid mechanic who imitated others, and copied an art which, through a long succession of ages, after multiplied trials, mistakes, corrections, deliberations, and controversies, had been gradually improving? Many worlds might have been botched and bungled, throughout an eternity, ere this system was struck out; much labor lost; many fruitless trials made; and a slow but continued improvement carried on during infinite ages in the art of world-making. In such subjects, who can determine where the truth, nay, who can conjecture where the probability lies, amidst a great number of hypotheses which may be proposed, and a still greater which may be imagined?

¿Dónde estoy? ¿Quién soy? ¿Quién soy?" "Eres Jude St. Francis. Eres mi más viejo y querido amigo. Eres el hijo de Harold Stein y Julia Altman. Eres el amigo de Malcolm Irving, de Jean-Baptiste Marion, de Richard Goldfarb, de Andy Contractor, de Lucien Voigt, de Citizen van Straaten, de Rhodes Arrowsmith, de Elijah Kozma, de Phaedra de los Santos y de los Henry Young. Eres de Nueva York. Vives en el SoHo. Haces voluntariado en una organización dedicada a las artes y en un comedor público. Practicas natación. Eres un repostero excelente. Sabes cocinar. Eres un gran lector. Tienes una magnífica voz. Eres coleccionista de arte. Me escribes unos mensajes preciosos cuando estoy fuera. Eres paciente. Eres generoso. De todas las personas que conozco, eres la que mejor sabe escuchar. Eres abogado. Eres el presidente del departamento de litigios de Rosen Pritchard and Klein. Te encanta tu trabajo; trabajas mucho. Eres matemático. Eres lógico. Has intentado enseñarme matemáticas una y otra vez. Te trataron muy mal, pero saliste de aquello. Siempre has sido tú mismo." "¿Y quién eres tú?¿Quién eres tú?" "Yo soy Willem Ragnarsson. Y no dejaré que te vayas.

Epigrams These four Epigrams were published—numbers 2 and 4 without title—by Mrs. Shelley, "Poetical Works", 1839, 1st edition. To Stella From the Greek of Plato Thou wert the morning star among the living, Ere thy fair light had fled;— Now, having died, thou art as Hesperus, giving New splendour to the dead. Kissing Helena From the Greek of Plato Kissing Helena, together With my kiss, my soul beside it Came to my lips, and there I kept it,— For the poor thing had wandered thither, To follow where the kiss should guide it, Oh, cruel I, to intercept it! Spirit of Plato From the Greek Eagle! why soarest thou above that tomb? To what sublime and star-ypaven home Floatest thou?— I am the image of swift Plato's spirit, Ascending heaven; Athens doth inherit His corpse below. NOTE: _5 doth Boscombe manuscript; does edition 1839. Circumstance From the Greek A man who was about to hang himself, Finding a purse, then threw away his rope; The owner, coming to reclaim his pelf, The halter found; and used it. So is Hope Changed for Despair—one laid upon the shelf, We take the other. Under Heaven's high cope Fortune is God—all you endure and do Depends on circumstance as much as you

La sombra de sus alas cayó sobre mis páginas; se deslizó detrás de mi y susurró: "Querida, eres una mujer joven, estás escribiendo sobre un libro escrito por un hombre. Se comprensiva, se delicada, halaga, engaña, usa todas las artes y las artimañas de tu sexo. Nunca dejes que nadie sepa que piensas por ti misma. Sobre todo, se pura." Me giré hacia ella y la agarré del cuello. Hice todo lo que pude para matarla. Si hubiera tenido que presentarme frente a un tribunal, mi excusa hubiera sido que actué en defensa propia. Si no la hubiera matado yo, me hubiera matado ella a mí. Matar al ángel del hogar era parte de la ocupación de una escritora.

eyes are lode-stars; and your tongue’s sweet air More tuneable than lark to shepherd’s ear, When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear. Sickness is catching: O, were favour so, Yours would I catch, fair Hermia, ere I go; My ear should catch your voice, my eye your eye, My tongue should catch your tongue’s sweet melody. Were the world mine, Demetrius being bated, The rest I’d give to be to you translated. O, teach me how you look, and with what art You sway the motion of Demetrius’ heart. Hermia I frown upon him, yet he loves me still. Helena O that your frowns would teach my smiles such skill! Hermia I give him curses, yet he gives me love. Helena O that my prayers could such affection move! Hermia

A veces sentía como si Dov intentara encontrarle un fallo. Si Sadie se pasaba el día leyendo una novela, él le decía: «Cuando tenía tu edad, yo estaba programando sin parar». O si Sadie era demasiado lenta para terminar una tarea que él le había asignado, le decía: «Eres brillante, pero vaga». Además de trabajar en los videojuegos de él, ella tenía toda la carga lectiva de un curso entero. Si se lo comentaba a Dov, él le decía: «Jamás jamás jamás te quejes». O bien: «Por eso no trabajo con estudiantes». Si ella le hablaba de un videojuego que admiraba y que para él no era para tanto, él explicaba las razones por las que era terrible. Y eso no se aplicaba solo a los videojuegos, sino a las películas, los libros y el arte en general. Llegó un punto en el que ella nunca expresaba de manera directa su opinión sobre nada. Se entrenó para empezar las conversaciones con: «¿Tú qué piensas, Dov?».

My child, this world is a new place, and strange, and often terrible: but be not afraid. All will come right at last. Rest will conquer Restlessness; Faith will conquer Fear; Order will conquer Disorder; Health will conquer Sickness; Joy will conquer Sorrow; Pleasure will conquer Pain; Life will conquer Death; Right will conquer Wrong. All will be well at last. Keep your soul and body pure, humble, busy, pious—in one word, be good: and ere you die, or after you die, you may have some glimpse of Me, the Everlasting Why: and hear with the ears, not of your body but of your spirit, men and all rational beings, plants and animals, ay, the very stones beneath your feet, the clouds above your head, the planets and the suns away in farthest space, singing eternally, ‘Thou art worthy, O Lord, to receive glory and honour and power, for Thou hast created all things, and for Thy pleasure they are and were created.

The Fox and the Thorn Bush. A fox, to escape the peril of the chase, leapt into a thorn bush, whose thorns hurt him sore. Thereupon the fox, weeping in his anguish, said to the thorn bush, "I am come to thee as to my refuge, and thou hast hurt me to the death." Then the thorn bush said to the fox, "Thou hast erred, and well thou hast beguiled thyself, for thou thought to have taken me as thou art accustomed to taking chickens and hens. La zorra y el espino. Una zorra que corría y saltaba sobre unos montículos en el bosque perdió en un momento dado el equilibrio, y para no caerse, se agarró a un espino, pero sus púas le hirieron las patas, y sintiendo el dolor que ellas le producían, le dijo al espino: - ¡ Acudí a ti por tu ayuda, y más bien me has herido ! A lo que respondió el espino: - ¡Tú tienes la culpa, amiga, por agarrarte a mí, bien sabes lo bueno que soy para enganchar y herir a todo el mundo, y tú no eres la excepción!

escritura automática, cadáveres exquisitos, performances de una sola persona y sin espectadores, contraintes, escritura a dos manos, a tres manos, escritura masturbatoria (con la derecha escribimos, con la izquierda nos masturbamos, o al revés si eres zurdo), madrigales, poemas-novela, sonetos cuya última palabra siempre es la misma, mensajes de sólo tres palabras escritos en las paredes («No puedo más», «Laura, te amo», etc.), diarios desmesurados, mail-poetry, projective verse, poesía conversacional, antipoesía, poesía concreta brasileña (escrita en portugués de diccionario), poemas en prosa policíacos (se cuenta con extrema economía una historia policial, la última frase la dilucida o no), parábolas, fábulas, teatro del absurdo, pop-art, haikús, epigramas (en realidad imitaciones o variaciones de Catulo, casi todas de Moctezuma Rodríguez), poesía-desperada (baladas del Oeste), poesía georgiana, poesía de la experiencia, poesía beat, apócrifos de bp—Nichol, de John Giorno, de John Cage (A Yearfrom Monday), de Ted Berrigan, del hermano Antoninus, de Armand Schwerner (The Tablets), poesía letrista, caligramas, poesía eléctrica (Bulteau, Messagier), poesía sanguinaria (tres muertos como mínimo), poesía pornográfica (variantes heterosexual, homosexual y bisexual, independientemente de la inclinación particular del poeta), poemas apócrifos de los nadaístas colombianos, horazerianos del Perú, catalépticos de Uruguay, tzantzicos de Ecuador, caníbales brasileños, teatro Nó proletario...

—¿No te das cuenta aún de que esto es una historia? Buenos o malos, cada día que vivimos es un capítulo y cada año una nueva parte para una obra completa que es nuestra vida, interconectada con las novelas que son las vidas de los demás y con el gran libro del que cada uno de nosotros formamos parte: la vida y los misterios que encierra. ››Sin duda, ahora mismo un lector recorre estas palabras esperando hallar sentido a los desvaríos de tus días. Existe un creador inmisericorde y un lector esperanzado; a lo mejor ambos son escritos por otros entes sin que lo sepan. Tal vez, pertenecemos a una gran historia compuesta de muchas otras que se escriben entre sí, sin cesar, hasta el fin del tiempo, más allá del punto final. Puede que todas nuestras historias sean solo puntos y aparte de algo más. Yo lo imagino así, por eso hay días en los que meneo la mano y digo: “hola, lector. Sé que me lees. ¿Alguien te estará leyendo a ti?”. Me gustan las dudas, porque me gusta imaginar las respuestas, por eso escribo. Sé que tú también lo sientes, que tú también deseas, ambicionas con toda tu alma ser un pequeño dios de la pluma que guarda la fantasía en papel. ››Cada vez que alguien nace es un nuevo personaje de un magnum opus cuyo final queda lejos. Somos una historia interminable. Desde que respiras por primera vez, eres un relato que espera alguna vez ser contado. Por eso, debemos representar a grandes e inolvidables personajes a la par que concebimos con nuestro arte otros que seguirán aumentando la ficción de la realidad. Créeme, por algo me llamaban Tinta y a ti el Hijo de Tinta. ¿Por qué renegar de nuestra esencia?

Ione I. AH, yes, 't is sweet still to remember, Though 't were less painful to forget; For while my heart glows like an ember, Mine eyes with sorrow's drops are wet, And, oh, my heart is aching yet. It is a law of mortal pain That old wounds, long accounted well, Beneath the memory's potent spell, Will wake to life and bleed again. So 't is with me; it might be better If I should turn no look behind, — If I could curb my heart, and fetter From reminiscent gaze my mind, Or let my soul go blind — go blind! But would I do it if I could? Nay! ease at such a price were spurned; For, since my love was once returned, All that I suffer seemeth good. I know, I know it is the fashion, When love has left some heart distressed, To weight the air with wordful passion; But I am glad that in my breast I ever held so dear a guest. Love does not come at every nod, Or every voice that calleth 'hasten;' He seeketh out some heart to chasten, And whips it, wailing, up to God! Love is no random road wayfarer Who Where he may must sip his glass. Love is the King, the Purple-Wearer, Whose guard recks not of tree or grass To blaze the way that he may pass. What if my heart be in the blast That heralds his triumphant way; Shall I repine, shall I not say: 'Rejoice, my heart, the King has passed!' In life, each heart holds some sad story — The saddest ones are never told. I, too, have dreamed of fame and glory, And viewed the future bright with gold; But that is as a tale long told. Mine eyes have lost their youthful flash, My cunning hand has lost its art; I am not old, but in my heart The ember lies beneath the ash. I loved! Why not? My heart was youthful, My mind was filled with healthy thought. He doubts not whose own self is truthful, Doubt by dishonesty is taught; So loved! boldly, fearing naught. I did not walk this lowly earth; Mine was a newer, higher sphere, Where youth was long and life was dear, And all save love was little worth. Her likeness! Would that I might limn it, As Love did, with enduring art; Nor dust of days nor death may dim it, Where it lies graven on my heart, Of this sad fabric of my life a part. I would that I might paint her now As I beheld her in that day, Ere her first bloom had passed away, And left the lines upon her brow. A face serene that, beaming brightly, Disarmed the hot sun's glances bold. A foot that kissed the ground so lightly, He frowned in wrath and deemed her cold, But loved her still though he was old. A form where every maiden grace Bloomed to perfection's richest flower, — The statued pose of conscious power, Like lithe-limbed Dian's of the chase. Beneath a brow too fair for frowning, Like moon-lit deeps that glass the skies Till all the hosts above seem drowning, Looked forth her steadfast hazel eyes, With gaze serene and purely wise. And over all, her tresses rare, Which, when, with his desire grown weak, The Night bent down to kiss her cheek, Entrapped and held him captive there. This was Ione; a spirit finer Ne'er burned to ash its house of clay; A soul instinct with fire diviner Ne'er fled athwart the face of day, And tempted Time with earthly stay. Her loveliness was not alone Of face and form and tresses' hue; For aye a pure, high soul shone through Her every act: this was Ione.

Thou art my servant; I have chosen thee." Isaiah 41:9 If we have received the grace of God in our hearts, its practical effect has been to make us God's servants. We may be unfaithful servants, we certainly are unprofitable ones, but yet, blessed be his name, we are his servants, wearing his livery, feeding at his table, and obeying his commands. We were once the servants of sin, but he who made us free has now taken us into his family and taught us obedience to his will. We do not serve our Master perfectly, but we would if we could. As we hear God's voice saying unto us, "Thou art my servant," we can answer with David, "I am thy servant; thou hast loosed my bonds." But the Lord calls us not only his servants, but his chosen ones--"I have chosen thee." We have not chosen him first, but he hath chosen us. If we be God's servants, we were not always so; to sovereign grace the change must be ascribed. The eye of sovereignty singled us out, and the voice of unchanging grace declared, "I have loved thee with an everlasting love." Long ere time began or space was created God had written upon his heart the names of his elect people, had predestinated them to be conformed unto the image of his Son, and ordained them heirs of all the fulness of his love, his grace, and his glory. What comfort is here! Has the Lord loved us so long, and will he yet cast us away? He knew how stiffnecked we should be; he understood that our hearts were evil, and yet he made the choice. Ah! our Saviour is no fickle lover. He doth not feel enchanted for awhile with some gleams of beauty from his church's eye, and then afterwards cast her off because of her unfaithfulness. Nay, he married her in old eternity; and it is written of Jehovah, "He hateth putting away." The eternal choice is a bond upon our gratitude and upon his faithfulness which neither can disown.

Comus. The Star that bids the Shepherd fold, Now the top of Heav'n doth hold, And the gilded Car of Day, [ 95 ] His glowing Axle doth allay In the steep Atlantick stream, And the slope Sun his upward beam Shoots against the dusky Pole, Pacing toward the other gole [ 100 ] Of his Chamber in the East. Mean while welcom Joy, and Feast, Midnight shout, and revelry, Tipsie dance and Jollity. Braid your Locks with rosie Twine [ 105 ] Dropping odours, dropping Wine. Rigor now is gone to bed, And Advice with scrupulous head, Strict Age, and sowre Severity, With their grave Saws in slumber ly. [ 110 ] We that are of purer fire Imitate the Starry Quire, Who in their nightly watchfull Sphears, Lead in swift round the Months and Years. The Sounds, and Seas with all their finny drove [ 115 ] Now to the Moon in wavering Morrice move, And on the Tawny Sands and Shelves, Trip the pert Fairies and the dapper Elves; By dimpled Brook, and Fountain brim, The Wood-Nymphs deckt with Daisies trim, [ 120 ] Their merry wakes and pastimes keep: What hath night to do with sleep? Night hath better sweets to prove, Venus now wakes, and wak'ns Love. Com let us our rights begin, [ 125 ] Tis onely day-light that makes Sin, Which these dun shades will ne're report. Hail Goddesse of Nocturnal sport Dark vaild Cotytto, t' whom the secret flame Of mid-night Torches burns; mysterious Dame [ 130 ] That ne're art call'd, but when the Dragon woom Of Stygian darknes spets her thickest gloom, And makes one blot of all the ayr, Stay thy cloudy Ebon chair, Wherin thou rid'st with Hecat', and befriend [ 135 ] Us thy vow'd Priests, till utmost end Of all thy dues be done, and none left out, Ere the blabbing Eastern scout, The nice Morn on th' Indian steep From her cabin'd loop hole peep, [ 140 ] And to the tel-tale Sun discry Our conceal'd Solemnity. Com, knit hands, and beat the ground, In a light fantastick round.

Hay un pequeño diálogo encantador entre los dichos y parábolas del sabio taoísta Chuang-tzu, que vivió alrededor de 300 a.C. Se titula La alegría del pez: Un día, Chuang-tzu se paseaba con su amigo Hui-tzu por el puente sobre el río Hao. Chuang-tzu dijo: - Cuán alegremente saltan y juegan los ágiles peces! Esta es la alegría del pez. Hui-tzu comentó: - No eres un pez, así que ¿cómo puedes saber acerca de la alegría del pez? Hui-tzu contestó: - No soy tú, por lo que no puedo conocerte del todo. Pero sigue siendo cierto que no eres un pez; por tanto, está perfectamente claro que no puedes saber acerca de la alegría del pez. Chuang-tzu dijo: - Volvamos al punto de partida, por favor. Tú dijiste "¿Cómo puedes saber acerca de la alegría del pez?" Pero tú ya lo sabías y aún así preguntaste. Conozco la alegría del pez por mi propia alegría al contemplarlos desde el puente. La conversación debe de haber sido proverbial en China, pues unos mil años más tarde, el gran poeta Po Chü-i (772-846) escribió dos breves estrofas de un comentario escéptico titulado Reflexiones junto al estanque: En vano Chuan y Hui discutieron en el puente sobre el Hao: Las mentes humanas no conocen necesariamente las mentes de otras criaturas Una nutria viene atrapando peces, el pez salta: ¡Esto no es placer de peces, es sobresalto de peces! El agua es poco profunda, los peces escasos, la garceta blanca está hambrienta: Concentrada, los ojos muy abiertos, espera a los peces. Desde fuera parece tranquila, pero por dentro está tensa: Las cosas no son lo que parece, pero ¿quién lo sabría? Lo que dice el poeta es que si él hubiera estado en el puente, habría advertido al sabio que no se fiase demasiado de su intuición. La fuerza de las convicciones subjetivas no es un salvavidas contra los errores. nunca sabemos realmente si tenemos razón, pero a veces sabemos que estábamos equivocados. Extraído de: E. H. GOMBRICH. Temas de nuestro tiempo. Propuestas del siglo XX. Acerca del saber y del Arte. Debate, 1997. p. 56 - 57 (Topics of our Time)

There was an artist in the city of Kouroo who was disposed to strive after perfection. One day it came into his mind to make a staff. Having considered that in an imperfect work time is an ingredient, but into a perfect work time does not enter, he said to himself, It shall be perfect in all respects, though I should do nothing else in my life. He proceeded instantly to the forest for wood, being resolved that it should not be made of unsuitable material; and as he searched for and rejected stick after stick, his friends gradually deserted him, for they grew old in their works and died, but he grew not older by a moment. His singleness of purpose and resolution, and his elevated piety, endowed him, without his knowledge, with perennial youth. As he made no compromise with Time, Time kept out of his way, and only sighed at a distance because he could not overcome him. Before he had found a stock in all respects suitable the city of Kouroo was a hoary ruin, and he sat on one of its mounds to peel the stick. Before he had given it the proper shape the dynasty of the Candahars was at an end, and with the point of the stick he wrote the name of the last of that race in the sand, and then resumed his work. By the time he had smoothed and polished the staff Kalpa was no longer the pole-star; and ere he had put on the ferule and the head adorned with precious stones, Brahma had awoke and slumbered many times. But why do I stay to mention these things? When the finishing stroke was put to his work, it suddenly expanded before the eyes of the astonished artist into the fairest of all the creations of Brahma. He had made a new system in making a staff, a world with full and fair proportions; in which, though the old cities and dynasties had passed away, fairer and more glorious ones had taken their places. And now he saw by the heap of shavings still fresh at his feet, that, for him and his work, the former lapse of time had been an illusion, and that no more time had elapsed than is required for a single scintillation from the brain of Brahma to fall on and inflame the tinder of a mortal brain. The material was pure, and his art was pure; how could the result be other than wonderful?

Twas the night before Christmas and in SICU All the patients were stirring, the nurses were, too. Some Levophed hung from an IMED with care In hopes that a blood pressure soon would be there. One patient was resting all snug in his bed While visions—from Versed—danced in his head. I, in my scrubs, with flowsheet in hand, Had just settled down to chart the care plan. Then from room 17 there arose such a clatter We sprang from the station to see what was the matter. Away to the bedside we flew like a flash, Saved the man from falling, with restraints from the stash. “Do you know where you are?” one nurse asked while tying; “Of course! I’m in France in a jail, and I’m dying!” Then what to my wondering eyes should appear? But a heart rate of 50, the alarm in my ear. The patient’s face paled, his skin became slick And he said in a moment, “I’m going to be sick!” Someone found the Inapsine and injected a port, Then ran for a basin, as if it were sport. His heart rhythm quieted back to a sinus, We soothed him and calmed him with old-fashioned kindness. And then in a twinkling we hear from room 11 First a plea for assistance, then a swearing to heaven. As I drew in my breath and was turning around, Through the unit I hurried to respond to the sound. “This one’s having chest pain,” the nurse said and then She gave her some nitro, then morphine and when She showed not relief from IV analgesia Her breathing was failing: time to call anesthesia. “Page Dr. Wilson, or May, or Banoub! Get Dr. Epperson! She ought to be tubed!” While the unit clerk paged them, the monitor showed V-tach and low pressure with no pulse: “Call a code!” More rapid than eagles, the code team they came. The leader took charge and he called drugs by name: “Now epi! Now lido! Some bicarb and mag! You shock and you chart it! You push med! You bag!” And so to the crash cart, the nurses we flew With a handful of meds, and some dopamine, too! From the head of the bed, the doc gave his call: “Resume CPR!” So we worked one and all. Then Doc said no more, but went straight to his work, Intubated the patient, then turned with a jerk. While placing his fingers aside of her nose, And giving a nod, hooked the vent to the hose. The team placed an art-line and a right triple-lumen. And when they were through, she scarcely looked human: When the patient was stable, the doc gave a whistle. A progress note added as he wrote his epistle. But I heard him exclaim ere he strode out of sight, “Merry Christmas to all! But no more codes for tonight!” Jamie L. Beeley Submitted by Nell Britton

Lincoln said that cultivating even ‘the smallest quantity’ of ground bred freedom and independence. ‘Ere long the most valuable of all arts, will be the art of deriving a comfortable subsistence from the smallest area of soil. No community whose every member possesses this art, can ever be the victim of oppression of any of its forms. Such community will be alike independent of crowned-kings, money-kings, and land-kings.

Mi madre me dijo: ‘Si eres soldado, llegarás a ser general. Si eres monje, llegarás a ser el Papa’. En cambio, fui pintor y llegué a ser Picasso”.

Ser “promedio” se ha convertido en el nuevo estándar de fracaso. Lo peor que puedes hacer es estar en el medio de la manada. Cuando el estándar de éxito en una cultura es “ser extraordinario”, entonces resulta que es mejor permanecer en el extremo inferior que estar en medio, porque al menos ahí aún eres especial y mereces atención. Mucha gente escoge esta estrategia: probarles a todos que ellos son los más miserables, los más

Cuando asumes que el avión en el que viajas es el que se estrellará o que la propuesta de tu proyecto es la idea estúpida de la que todos se burlarán o que eres aquel del que todos se mofarán o ignorarán, implícitamente estás diciéndote: “Soy la excepción. No me parezco a nadie más. Soy diferente y especial”. Esto es narcisismo, puro y simple. Sientes como si tus problemas merecieran un trato diferente, que tus problemas son tan únicos que no obedecen las leyes del universo físico.

Si eres una hembra y tenías talento, la vida resultaba una trampa, no importaba el camino que eligieras. O te sumergías en la vida doméstica (y tenías fantasías a lo Walter Mitty para fugarte) o suspirabas por la vida doméstica en todo tu arte. Nunca podías escapar a la condición de hembra. El conflicto estaba escrito en tu mismísima sangre." Miedo a volar

El responsable del producto En Scrum hay únicamente tres papeles. Eres parte del equipo y haces el trabajo, o eres el Scrum Master, ayudando al equipo a saber cómo hacer mejor el trabajo, o el responsable del producto. Este último decide qué hacer. Está a cargo de los Pendientes, su contenido y, sobre todo, el orden de éste.

Pero como eres un hábil responsable del producto, priorizas lo que la gente desea: una alarma fácil de programar, volumen suficiente, un radio y una pantalla lo bastante vívida para poder verla ya sea que la habitación esté iluminada o a oscuras. Y cuando tu equipo termina eso, te percatas de que creó el reloj con alarma más elegante que haya habido nunca. Es el iPod de Apple de los relojes con alarma. Es bonito y hace una cosa muy, muy bien. Así que en vez de poner a tu equipo a incorporar funciones adicionales, lanzas ese reloj y te pones a trabajar en el proyecto siguiente. El equipo puede proporcionar más valor haciendo otra cosa.

RESUMEN Es el viaje, no el destino. La felicidad verdadera está en el proceso, no en el resultado. Solemos premiar sólo resultados, pero lo que realmente debemos honrar es a la gente que se esfuerza por ser grande. La felicidad es lo de hoy. Te ayuda a tomar decisiones más inteligentes. Además, cuando eres feliz también eres más creativo, menos propenso a dejar tu trabajo y más a cumplir más de lo que nunca previste. Cuantifica la felicidad. No basta sentirse bien; debes medir

Not at all," persisted Chalmers, unaware that Shea was trying to shush him. "The people of the country have agreed to call magic 'white' when practised for lawful ends by duly authorized agents of the governing authority, and 'black' when practised by unauthorized persons for criminal ends. That is not to say that the principles of the science — or art — are not the same in either event. You should confine such terms as 'black' and 'white' to the objects for which the magic is performed, and not apply it to the science itself, which like all branches of knowledge is morally neutral —" "But," protested Belphebe, "is't not that the spell used to, let us say, kidnap a worthy citizen be different from that used to trap a malefactor?" "Verbally but not structurally," Chalmers went on. After some minutes of wrangling, Chalmers held up the bone of his drumstick. "I think I can, for instance, conjure the parrot back on this bone — or at least fetch another parrot in place of the one we ate. Will you concede, young lady, that that is a harmless manifestation of the art?" "Aye, for the now," said the girl. "Though I know you schoolmen; say 'I admit this; I concede that,' are ere long one finds oneself conceded into a noose." "Therefore it would be 'white' magic. But suppose I desired the parrot for some — uh — illegal purpose —" "What manner of crime for ensample, good sir?" asked Belphebe. "I — uh — can't think just now. Assume that I did. The spell would be the same in either case —" "Ah, but would it?" cried Belphebe. "Let me see you conjure a brace of parrots, one fair, one foul; then truly I'll concede." Chalmers frowned. "Harold, what would be a legal purpose for which to conjure a parrot?" Shea shrugged. "If you really want an answer, no purpose would be as legal as any, unless there's something in gamelaws. Personally I think it's the silliest damned argument —

Si te salvas por los pelos, quedas traumatizado. Si te salvas holgadamente, piensas que eres invencible.

But those unhappy ones who were ensnared by Melkor little is known of a certainty. For who of the living has descended into the pits of Utumno, or has explored the darkness of the counsels of Melkor? Yet this is held true by the wise Eressea, that all those of the Quendi who came into the hands of Melkor, ere Utumno was broken, were put there in prison, and by slow arts of cruelty were corrupted and enslaved; and thus did Melkor breed the hideous race of the Orcs in envy and mockery of the Elves, of whom they were afterwards the bitterest foes. For the Orcs had life and multiplied after the manner of the Children of Iluvatar; and naught that had life of its or, nor semblance of life, could ever Melkor make since his rebellion in the Ainulindale before the Beginning: so say the wise. And deep in their dark hearts the Orcs loathed the Master whom they served in fear, the maker only of their misery. This it may be was the vilest deed of Melkor and the most hateful to Iluvatar.

Cuando le dices a una persona que la amas y ella te responde: «Bueno, yo no te amo a ti», ¿es esa una razón para sufrir? Que alguien te rechace no significa que tú tengas que rechazarte a ti mismo. Si una persona no te ama, otra te amará. Siempre hay alguien más. Y es mejor estar con alguien que quiere estar contigo que con alguien que siente que tiene que estar contigo. Tienes que concentrarte en la relación más maravillosa que es posible tener: la relación contigo mismo. No es una cuestión de egoísmo; se trata de amarse a uno mismo. No es lo mismo. Eres egoísta contigo mismo porque no sientes amor. Necesitas amarte a ti mismo, y cuando lo hagas, entonces el amor crecerá más y más.

Son tus reacciones las que te hacen sentir muy desdichado o muy feliz. Tus reacciones son la clave para tener una vida maravillosa. Si eres capaz de aprender a controlar tus propias reacciones, entonces podrás cambiar tus costumbres y cambiarás tu vida. Eres responsable de las consecuencias de todo lo que haces, piensas, dices y sientes.

Si tomas tu felicidad y la pones en manos de alguien, más tarde o más temprano, la romperá. Si le das tu felicidad a otra persona, siempre podrá llevársela con ella. Y como la felicidad sólo puede provenir de tu interior y es resultado de tu amor, sólo tú eres responsable de tu propia felicidad. Jamás podemos responsabilizar a otra persona de nuestra propia felicidad, aunque cuando acudimos a la iglesia para casarnos, lo primero que hacemos es intercambiar los anillos. Colocamos la estrella en manos de la otra persona con la esperanza de que nos haga felices y de que nosotros la haremos feliz a ella. No importa cuánto ames a alguien, nunca serás lo que esa persona quiere que seas. Ese es el error que la mayoría de nosotros cometemos nada más empezar. Asentamos nuestra felicidad en nuestra pareja y no es así como funciona.

Para que los dos seáis capaces de mantener la felicidad, será necesario que mantengas tu mitad en perfecto estado. Eres responsable de tu mitad, que contiene una determinada cantidad de basura. Tu basura es tu basura. Y quien tiene que hacerse cargo de ella eres tú, no tu pareja. Si tu pareja intenta limpiar tu basura acabará con la nariz rota. Tenemos que aprender a no meter la nariz donde no nos llaman.

Nadie entiende mi humor cómo tú lo entiendes, con nadie me río como contigo y nadie me da más risa que tú. Una isla desierta contigo sería chingón, el infierno contigo, sería envidiado por un cielo aburrido, de tu arte a mi arte, siempre preferiré tu arte porque miarte no está chido y porque eres el artista más sutil y elegante que conozco.

El budismo postula que tu concepto de “quien eres” es un constructo mental arbitrario y que deberías dejar de aferrarte a la idea de que “tú” existes. Todos los parámetros arbitrarios mediante los cuales te autodefines acaban por atraparte; por ello, es mejor que te liberes de todo. En un sentido, podrías afirmar que el budismo te alienta a que te importe un carajo.

Por la crisis conoceremos a los psicóticos pero también, y esto es importante, a los psiquiatras. Además diagnosticamos, hasta cierto punto, a la sociedad. Dime cómo interpretas y valoras la crisis y te diré qué psiquiatra eres. Dime qué crisis imperan y cómo se toleran y te diré en qué sociedad vives.

Himalayan Sonneteer Sonnet 1 My science is you, my art is you, La mañana de mi mente eres tú. Mi casa tú, mi cielo tú, La verdad de mi vida eres tú. People are the truth of life, Not some beliefs and biases. People are the magic of my words, People are the center of my poetries. People are the beginning, People are the end. People are the meaning, People are the mend. We lift ourselves when we lift up the people. When we're each other's rock, we are unstoppable.

My science is you, my art is you, La mañana de mi mente eres tú. Mi casa tú, mi cielo tú, La verdad de mi vida eres tú.

—Catalina, eres la mujer más viva que he conocido. Me vibras en las manos.

Si yo soy yo porque soy yo, y tú eres tú porque eres tú, yo soy yo y tú eres tú. Si, por el contrario, yo soy yo porque tú eres tú, y tú eres tú porque yo soy yo, entonces ni yo soy yo ni tú eres tú…

—¿Por qué mierda estás sonriendo, Aiden? —me miró con cansancio. —¿Qué acaso no puedo sonreír? —inquirí más divertido aún. —Es la primera vez que te veo con una expresión más relajada y no con el ceño fruncido. —Pues, es la primera vez que veo al perfecto Leo Valenti enojado y frustrado —confesé sin poder evitar sonreír. —¿Estás sonriendo porque estoy enojado? ¿Es en serio, Aiden? —comentó con incredulidad. —Sí, es un poco divertido ver que tú también eres humano.

Si quieres que te diga todos los días lo fantástico que eres a mis ojos, puedo hacerlo sin problemas. Sigue esforzándote, tú tranquilo, estaré ahí para recordártelo.

—Eres tan jodidamente adorable —comentó abrazándome. —No lo soy. —suspiré devolviéndole el abrazo. —¡Sí, lo eres! —gritó mi hermano desde la otra calle. Mierda, lo vio todo. Arg.

—Así que todo lo que he hecho, mi habilidad con la lanza, la forma en que lucho... No soy yo. Eres tú. —Somos nosotros. —Es hacer trampas. No me lo merezco. —Tonterías —replicó Syl—. Practicas todos los días. —Tengo ventaja. —La ventaja del talento —declaró ella—. Cuando la maestra música coge por primera vez un instrumento y encuentra en él música que nadie más es capaz de hallar, ¿es eso hacer trampas? ¿Es inmerecido ese arte, solo porque ella tiene más habilidad natural? ¿O es genio?

Él fue mi pasado, tú eres mi presente y espero que seas mi jodido futuro.

Sintonizando decisión tras decisión, tu vida entera se convierte en una forma de autoexpresión. Tú eres un ser creativo que existe en un universo creativo. Una obra de arte única.

Nadie ni nada os va a hacer felices. Tú eres la felicidad. Deja que La Presencia ocupe todo el espacio. Todo el tiempo que tienes es «ahora». Tu ego se aferra a tu pasado y lo revive en tu presente.

Dost thou now look on sin not as thou wert wont, for thy prince, but as a usurper, whose tyranny, by the grace of God, thou art resolved to shake off, both as intolerable to thee and dishonourable to God, whom thou now acknowledgest to be thy rightful Lord, and to whose holy laws thy heart most freely promiseth obedience?  This, poor soul, may assure thee that thou shalt have a full dominion over sin in heaven ere long, which hath begun already to lose his power over thee on earth. 

¿Sabías que las indicaciones del tiempo de espera en la cola de las atracciones de Disneylandia están exageradas? Así, cuando llegas al principio de la cola en menos tiempo del anunciado, eres un visitante feliz.

David was at much pains to cover up his wickedness, but ere long the all-seeing God sent one of His servants to say to him, “Thou art the man”! And

—El futuro, el legado, lo que somos, seremos y cómo nos recordarán. Me gustan las historias por su capacidad de hacer que las personas permanezcan. Sacrificas algo de tu vida, lo transformas en arte, y, aunque mueras, pervives para alguien en ese relato. Siempre se puede sobrevivir si se es una historia para alguien. Eres inmortal. Los escritores son un ejemplo de ello. Eso es importante para cada uno de nosotros y lo será, por eso es genial poder recibir a los antiguos alumnos y…

And yet erewhile, when thou wert in the ear, Even as a (golden) glittering grain, even then The fireflies came to cast on thee their light ^ And aid thy growth, because without their help Thou couldsl not grow nor beautiful become; Therefore thou dost belong unto the race Of witches or of fairies, and because The fireflies do belong unto the sun. . , , Queen of the Fireflies ! hurry apace,-Come to me now as if running a race, Bridle the horse as you hear me now sing! Bridle, O bridle the son of the king ! Come in a hurry and bring him to me! The son of the king will ere long set thee free; ' Theie is an evident association here of [he body of the firefly which much resembles a grain of wheat) wilh the latter. ' The six lines followiDg are oilen heard as 3. nursery rhyme. And because thou for ever art brilliant and fair, Under a glass I will keep thee; while there, With a lens I will study thy secrets concealed, Till all their bright mysteries are fully revealed. Yea, all the wondrous lore perplexed Of this life of our cross and of the next. Thus to all mysteries I shall attain, Yea, even to that at last of the grain; And when this at last I shall truly know. Firefly, freely I'll let thee go! When Earth's dark secrets are known to me. My blessing at last I will give to thee! Here follows the Conjuration of the Salt. Conjuration of the Salt. I do conjure thee, salt, lo! here at noon, Exactly in the middle of a stream I take my place and see the water round, Likewise the sun, and think of nothing else White here besides the water and the sun: For all my soul is turned in truth to them; I do indeed desire no other thought, I yearn to learn the very truth of truths. For I have suffered long with the desire To know my future or my coming fate. If good or evil will prevail in it. Water and sun, be gracious unto me ! Here follows the Conjuration of Cain. AMDU Scongiurasione di Caino. Tuo Caino, tu non possa aver Ne pace e ne bene fino che Dal sole' andaCe non sarai coi piedi Correndo, le mani battendo, E pregarlo per me che mi faccia sapere, II mio destino, se cattiva fosse, Allora me lo faccia cambiare, Se questa grazia mi farete, L' acqua al lo splendor del sol la guardero: E tu Caino colla tua bocca mi diiai II mio destino quale sark: Se questa grazia o Caino non mi farai, Pace e bene non avrai! The

Men jeg drister mig, uden Vanitet, at sige, at vore Nordiske Tilskuere, helst af Middelstand, ere langt beqvem-mere Dommere herudi, end de Parisiske: Thi hvis de første ikke have saa fiin Smag som de sidste, saa have de den dog ikke saa selsom og fordærved.

How solemn is this fact: nothing can be concealed from God! “For I know the things that come into your mind, every one of them” (Ezek. 11:5). Though he be invisible to us, we are not so to him. Neither the darkness of night, the closest curtains, nor the deepest dungeon can hide any sinner from the eyes of Omniscience. The trees of the garden were not able to conceal our first parents. No human eye beheld Cain murder his brother, but his Maker witnessed his crime. Sarah might laugh derisively in the seclusion of her tent, yet was it heard by Jehovah. Achan stole a wedge of gold and carefully hid it in the earth, but God brought it to light. David was at much pains to cover up his wickedness, but ere long the all-seeing God sent one of his servants to say to him, “Thou art the man!” And to writer and reader is also said, “Be sure your sin will find you out” (Num. 32:23).

But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, With all the freaks of wanton wealth array’d— In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, The toiling pleasure sickens into pain; And, e’en while fashion’s brightest arts decoy, The heart distrusting asks if this be joy.

Dora jote ledhatare Dora jote ledhataja, esht' e zbete si qiri. Dora jote ledhatarja leshon driten e debores. Kur t'a ndjeu magjine-e paster qe te shtrydheshe prej dores, Shpirti im i frymezuar regetiu ne llaftari. Se me lende magjistare u pat bere tul' i saj; Tul'i saj u pat gatuar me vaj ere-e brume dylli; I dha hena pak te ndezur, pluhur t'arte-i fali ylli, E keshtu m'u duk hirplote- haj! o dor'e vashes, haj! Ne veshtrim te dores s'ate c'pat, o! balli qe m'u vdar? C'pat qepall' e perlotur q'i ra pika tatepjete?- Dor'e bryllt' e vashes s'ime, dor'e paqme, dor' e zbete, Vetetiu me prush magjije e me beri mendimtar. Dora jote qe me dhimbset, dora jote qe me cik; Dora jote qe me shtrihet siper temblave gjumashe; Dora jote: zemra jote qe t'u nda me pese fashe... Dh'u be dore te me ndali ndaj dyshoj se mos ik...

There was an artist in the city of Kouroo who was disposed to strive after perfection. One day it came into his mind to make a staff. Having considered that in an imperfect work time is an ingredient, but into a perfect work time does not enter, he said to himself, It shall be perfect in all respects, though I should do nothing else in my life. He proceeded instantly to the forest for wood, being resolved that it should not be made of unsuitable material; and as he searched for and rejected stick after stick, his friends gradually deserted him, for they grew old in their works and died, but he grew not older by a moment. His singleness of purpose and resolution, and his elevated piety, endowed him, without his knowledge, with perennial youth. As he made no compromise with Time, Time kept out of his way, and only sighed at a distance because he could not overcome him. Before he had found a stock in all respects suitable the city of Kouroo was a hoary ruin, and he sat on one of its mounds to peel the stick. Before he had given it the proper shape the dynasty of the Candahars was at an end, and with the point of the stick he wrote the name of the last of that race in the sand, and then resumed his work. By the time he had smoothed and polished the staff Kalpa was no longer the pole-star; and ere he had put on the ferrule and the head adorned with precious stones, Brahma had awoke and slumbered many times. But why do I stay to mention these things? When the finishing stroke was put to his work, it suddenly expanded before the eyes of the astonished artist into the fairest of all the creations of Brahma. He had made a new system in making a staff, a world with fun and fair proportions; in which, though the old cities and dynasties had passed away, fairer and more glorious ones had taken their places. And now he saw by the heap of shavings still fresh at his feet, that, for him and his work, the former lapse of time had been an illusion, and that no more time had elapsed than is required for a single scintillation from the brain of Brahma to fall on and inflame the tinder of a mortal brain. The material was pure, and his art was pure; how could the result be other than wonderful?

Death's Embrace - A Soliloquy by Stewart Stafford In sincere tongue, declare with heart: Art thou but a mimic, shadow of the art, Or standest thou bold, architect of the new, Crafting the morrow in thy vision true? Unburden me from this oppressive weight, I cannot bear this overwhelming force. Despair hath found its pinnacle in me, And I must peer into realms unknown, If cherished sight fails me at mine end, I shall renounce all chimeras of the light. But fall not tamely from Life’s precipice, Death presses hard on thy frail fingers, Hold on, cry, resist thy certain ruin! Trouble's court, may yet bestow thee favour. Dreams are but fancies giv’n swift wings, That soar beyond the bounds of reason; In minds that dare to fly unshackled, The dreamer becometh the vision. Love is both a journey and destination: Long and painful upon the path, Unsought, yet blissful when it is found. From dust conjur’d — to stars, we’re turned. Beware the self-righteous man, Whose pride does unseat the very world Before he sees his error. Piteous wounds of thine own hand, 'Tis easy to judge from afar Without walking with aching bones. If there be cause that yet remaineth here, It showeth their harshness and injustice To themselves and their loving others. Mourn their release with mercy and thanks Transient whispers guide along chance’s way. Weep not for those who have found Death’s embrace, They lament for us who tarry on old shores. Death but ushers a veiled dawn, not life's twilight, A metamorphosis of guise, not of the spirit's light. Though we must part for now, we shall be one again. For love’s wrought by flesh, yet holds not its chain. Time-worn age stoops; penitents depart. Pawned as one in vigilant trance But what a folly 'tis to mark the signs of our undoing; Memory's comet trails bequeathed to loved ones left, Contagion's rehearsal on the ephemeral stage. With luck, a stand-in may go on in thy stead. Ere thy final bow becomes unavoidable. With tyrant Death prowling public ways, I turn from mankind hence to seek delight. A chamber ceiling seen upon morn's wake, I say: “The sun does rise? Let's haste away!” Upon waking, a stone tomb's ashen lid, I would perchance say: “Alas!..mine eyes do grow heavy.” A life well-liv’d is not weigh’d by earthly goods Or the number of mourners at the grave. Numerous, deep laugh lines tell the tale, On the face of the person lying still in the crypt, Reveals threescore years and twelve’s true worth. Death is not the villain of the piece; It is the next phase of life, in strange attire. I accept my fate with grace and courage. For I have liv’d and lov’d and dream’d enough. © Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.

Por poner un ejemplo, mantener una relación de pareja por muchos años, y que además sea una relación feliz y satisfactoria para las personas involucradas, implica un nivel de inteligencia muy alto. Necesita que el interruptor se accione de manera constante para entender a la otra persona. Saber lo que la otra persona siente, empatizar con ella, simpatizar, tener la vista de anticiparse a lo que puede sentir o pensar, darse a conocer al otro, hacerle entender cómo eres, elaborar un proyecto de pareja en el que ambos se sientan a gusto, dejar independencia a los miembros a la vez que cada uno sabe del compromiso auténtico del otro… Es decir, las relaciones a largo plazo suponen un ejercicio magnífico para poner a prueba nuestro aparato de pensamiento crítico y así saber si estamos dispuestos a colocarnos en la piel de otra persona y construir una vida feliz.

Sí, es probable que la amplitud de experiencias sea necesaria y deseable cuando eres joven, después de todo, debes salir y descubrir por ti mismo aquello en lo que vale la pena involucrarte. Pero es en la profundidad donde se esconde el oro, y tienes que mantenerte comprometido con algo y profundizar en ello para poder encontrarlo. Esto aplica para las relaciones, la carrera, para construir un gran estilo de vida . . . para todo.

Mátate El budismo postula que tu concepto de “quien eres” es un constructo mental arbitrario y que deberías dejar de aferrarte a la idea de que “tú” existes. Todos los parámetros arbitrarios mediante los cuales te autodefines acaban por atraparte; por ello, es mejor que te liberes de todo. En un sentido, podrías afirmar que el budismo te alienta a que te importe un carajo. Suena extraño, pero este enfoque de vida presenta beneficios psicológicos. Cuando soltamos las historias que nos contamos de nosotros a nosotros mismos, nos liberamos para, finalmente, actuar (y fallar) y crecer.

Gustavo Solivellas dice: "Si crees que eres demasiado pequeño para hacer una diferencia, trata de dormir con un mosquito" (Dalai Lama)

The trial and confession of Isobel Gowdie, a Scottish witch tried in 1662, echoes some of the transformation sequences in Cerridwen’s tale. Her vivid account offers a detailed and unique glimpse into the practise of Witchcraft during the seventeenth century. O I shall go into a hare, with sorrow and sighing and mickle care, and I shall go in the Devil’s name, aye, till I be fetched home again. Hare, take heed of a bitch greyhound, will harry thee all these fells around, for here come I in our Lady’s name, all but for to fetch thee home again. Cunning and art he did not lack, but aye her whistle would fetch him back. Yet I shall go into a trout, with sorrow and sighing and mickle doubt, and show thee many a merry game, ere that I be fetched home again. Trout take heed of an otter lank, will harry thee close from bank to bank, for here come I in our Lady’s name, all but for to fetch thee home again.69