Gates To Infinity Quotes

The law of attraction is synonymous to the law of sacrifice, in which you get in return what you are decisively choose to give up. The universe in all her infinity beauty generously opens up gates that you had no idea existed when you close others, but she requires you to walk through the gates solely on your own will and strength, with the other doors that you have left behind often times being forever locked and eternally inaccessible.

Death is a part of Life, they are dancing together the dance of infinity in front of the gates of Time. We can live our dreams as we are dreaming our future. Time is the Endless Consciousness

In a dream I walked with God through the deep places of creation; past walls that receded and gates that opened through hall after hall of silence, darkness and refreshment--the dwelling place of souls acquainted with light and warmth--until, around me, was an infinity into which we all flowed together and lived anew, like the rings made by raindrops falling upon wide expanses of calm dark waters.

When infinity opens to us, terrible indeed is the closing of the gate behind.

The other one, the one called Borges, is the one things happen to. I walk through the streets of Buenos Aires and stop for a moment, perhaps mechanically now, to look at the arch of an entrance hall and the grillwork on the gate. I know of Borges from the mail and see his name on a list of professors or in a biographical dictionary. I like hourglasses, maps, eighteenth-century typography, the taste of coffee and the prose of Stevenson; he shares these preferences, but in a vain way that turns them into the attributes of an actor. It would be an exaggeration to say that ours is a hostile relationship. I live, let myself go on living, so that Borges may contrive his literature, and this literature justifies me. It is no effort for me to confess that he has achieved some valid pages, but those pages cannot save me, perhaps because what is good belongs to no one, not even to him, but rather to the language and to tradition. Besides I am destined to perish, definitively, and only some instant of myself can survive in him. Little by little, I am giving over everything to him, though I am quite aware of his perverse custom of falsifying and magnifying things. Spinoza knew that all things long to persist in their being; the stone eternally wants to be a stone, and the tiger a tiger. I shall remain in Borges, not in myself (if it is true that I am someone), but I recognize myself less in his books than in many others or in the laborious strumming of a guitar. Years ago I tried to free myself from him and went from the mythologies of the suburbs to the games with time and infinity, but those games belong to Borges now and I shall have to imagine other things. Thus my life is a flight and I lose everything and everything belongs to oblivion, or to him. I do not know which of us has written this page.

He was told how childish and limited is the notion of a tri-dimensional world, and what an infinity of directions there are besides the known directions of up-down, forward-backward, right-left. He was shown the smallness and tinsel emptiness of the little Earth gods, with their petty, human interests and connetions—their hatreds, rages, loves, and vanities; their craving for praise and sacrifice, and their demands for faith contrary to reason and Nature.

When human life lay foul for all to see Upon the earth, crushed by the burden of religion, Religion which from heaven’s firmament Displayed its face, its ghastly countenance, Lowering above mankind, the first who dared Raise mortal eyes against it, first to take His stand against it, was a man of Greece. He was not cowed by fables of the gods Or thunderbolts or heaven’s threatening roar, But they the more spurred on his ardent soul Yearning to be the first to break apart The bolts of nature’s gates and throw them open. Therefore his lively intellect prevailed And forth he marched, advancing onwards far Beyond the flaming ramparts of the world, And voyaged in mind throughout infinity, Whence he victorious back in triumph brings Report of what can be and what cannot And in what manner each thing has a power That’s limited, and deep-set boundary stone. Wherefore religion in its turn is cast Beneath the feet of men and trampled down, And us his victory has made peers of heaven.

Ages passed slowly, like a load of hay, As the flowers recited their lines And pike stirred at the bottom of the pond. The pen was cool to the touch. The staircase swept upward Through fragmented garlands, keeping the melancholy Already distilled in letters of the alphabet. It would be time for winter now, its spun-sugar Palaces and also lines of care At the mouth, pink smudges on the forehead and cheeks, The color once known as "ashes of roses.-" How many snakes and lizards shed their skins For time to be passing on like this, Sinking deeper in the sand as it wound toward The conclusion. It had all been working so well and now, Well, it just kind of came apart in the hand As a change is voiced, sharp As a fishhook in the throat, and decorative tears flowed Past us into a basin called infinity. There was no charge for anything, the gates Had been left open intentionally. Don't follow, you can have whatever it is. And in some room someone examines his youth, Finds it dry and hollow, porous to the touch... O keep me with you, unless the outdoors Embraces both of us, unites us, unless The birdcatchers put away their twigs, The fishermen haul in their sleek empty nets And others become part of the immense crowd Around this bonfire, a situation That has come to mean us to us, and the crying In the leaves is saved, the last silver drops.

When great empires fall, historians theorise, they fall so slowly that their demise isn’t even noticeable to those who live through it. It has to be reconstructed generations later, when the dust has settled and the patterns hidden behind seemingly random events can finally be made out.

The other one, the one called Borges, is the one things happen to. I walk through the streets of Buenos Aires and stop for a moment, perhaps mechanically now, to look at the arch of an entrance hall and the grillwork on the gate; I know of Borges from the mail and see his name on a list of professors or in a biographical dictionary. I like hourglasses, maps, eighteenth-century typography, the taste of coffee and the prose of Stevenson; he shares these preferences, but in a vain way that turns them into the attributes of an actor. It would be an exaggeration to say that ours is a hostile relationship; I live, let myself go on living, so that Borges may contrive his literature, and this literature justifies me. It is no effort for me to confess that he has achieved some valid pages, but those pages cannot save me, perhaps because what is good belongs to no one, not even to him, but rather to the language and to tradition. Besides, I am destined to perish, definitively, and only some instant of myself can survive in him. Little by little, I am giving over everything to him, though I am quite aware of his perverse custom of falsifying and magnifying things. Spinoza knew that all things long to persist in their being; the stone eternally wants to be a stone and the tiger a tiger. I shall remain in Borges, not in myself (if it is true that I am someone), but I recognize myself less in his books than in many others or in the laborious strumming of a guitar. Years ago I tried to free myself from him and went from the mythologies of the suburbs to the games with time and infinity, but those games belong to Borges now and I shall have to imagine other things. Thus my life is a flight and I lose everything and everything belongs to oblivion, or to him. I do not know which of us has written this page.

The other one, the one called Borges, is the one things happen to. I walk through the streets of Buenos Aires and stop for a moment, perhaps mechanically now, to look at the arch of an entrance hall and the grillwork on the gate; I know of Borges from the mail and see his name on a list of professors or in a biographical dictionary. I like hourglasses, maps, eighteenth-century typography, the taste of coffee and the prose of Stevenson; he shares these preferences, but in a vain way that turns them into the attributes of an actor. It would be an exaggeration to say that ours is a hostile relationship; I live, let myself go on living, so that Borges may contrive his literature, and this literature justifies me. It is no effort for me to confess that he has achieved some valid pages, but those pages cannot save me, perhaps because what is good belongs to no one, not even to him, but rather to the language and to tradition. Besides, I am destined to perish, definitively, and only some instant of myself can survive in him. Little by little, I am giving over everything to him, though I am quite aware of his perverse custom of falsifying and magnifying things. Spinoza knew that all things long to persist in their being; the stone eternally wants to be a stone and the tiger a tiger. I shall remain in Borges, not in myself (if it is true that I am someone), but I recognize myself less in his books than in many others or in the laborious strumming of a guitar. Years ago I tried to free myself from him and went from the mythologies of the suburbs to the games with time and infinity, but those games belong to Borges now and I shall have to imagine other things. Thus my life is a flight and I lose everything and everything belongs to oblivion, or to him. I do not know which of us has written this page.

Then the waves increased in strength, and sought to improve his understanding, reconciling him to the multiform entity of which his present fragment was an infinitesimal part. They told him that every figure of space is but the result of the intersection by a plane of some corresponding figure of one more dimension—as a square is cut from a cube or a circle from a sphere. The cube and sphere, of three dimensions, are thus cut from corresponding forms of four dimensions that men know only through guesses and dreams; and these in turn are cut from forms of five dimensions, and so on up to the dizzy and reachless heights of archetypal infinity. The world of men and of the gods of men is merely an infinitesimal phase of an infinitesimal thing—the three-dimensional phase of that small wholeness reached by the First Gate, where ’Umr at-Tawil dictates dreams to the Ancient Ones. Though men hail it as reality and brand thoughts of its many-dimensioned original as unreality, it is in truth the very opposite. That which we call substance and reality is shadow and illusion, and that which we call shadow and illusion is substance and reality.

Cabalistic mystics speak about God having an Unmanifest as well as a Manifest aspect. According to this terminology, 5-meo-DMT allows us to directly experience the Unmanifest aspect of the Godhead, which Cabalists call the Eyn Sof, “understood as God prior to any self-manifestation in the production of any spiritual realm,” unending,” or “infinity,” according to Wikipedia. On the other hand, nn-DMT opens the gate to the Manifest aspect of the Divine. Both induce high-voltage shocks of awe and ecstasy.

You need to evade, then. Don’t go straight home, Paz. Go somewhere crowded first. The mall, Paz thought. But when they got to the Retail Complex and saw the long line waiting to go in she remembered the CoIL checkpoint and shied away. If she let the enforcers scan her, Dulcie would pop to the top of her thoughts like a fart in a bathtub.

Sleeping and waking lost their edges. Healing and being ill too. It was difficult if not impossible to draw a line between them.

When great empires fall, historians theorise, they fall so slowly that their demise isn’t even noticeable to those who live through it.

Life is a movement that makes itself within the great unmaking that is the entropic universe.

He thought she might come when he least expected, waking him from this strange dream with a kiss, whispering her forgiveness, bringing him home.

To wish for the world to be in a better state was to wish for the entire history of life to have played out differently. It was a pretty big ask.

I would probably have paid less attention to the packaging and more to the contents.

paradise was also a local condition, a question of who you were and where you were standing.

The air changed. It had been dry, the Hill air I had grown used to. All in a moment the breeze went moist and soft, like a hand laid against me. I smelled salt and iodine, fish and weed, the coast and all that dwells there—its countless lives.

What if I were to open the gates and God was not behind them? What if there was no God, after a hundred thousand centuries of waiting? As long as those doors remain closed, there is always a possibility. Open that door, and the possibility might evaporate.

Monadic consciousness.

Sentients on every world have this moment when they think intelligence is what separates them from the rest of creation. It takes them a lot longer to figure out that they’re arguing from the very heart of survivor bias, and therefore underestimating the importance of blind, brute chance.

The voice was a woman’s, warm and rich. Paz thought it was the sort of voice that might belong to a woman of her mother’s age – old enough that her fur had begun to darken and her ears to fold inwards at the tips.

Penance Madrigal Solar, the physicist

the sergeant answered emolliently.

I am the gate, a path to a dying religion. My thoughts it's doctrines and my mind it's temples. Spiritualism, within an existence dictated by the requisite of enlightenment. ‘I see,' and I daresay ‘we see,' for I am the door to transient lives beyond the mortal planes. My clock neither tics nor tocks and my eyes knows not light nor dark, for my being is and is without existence. For I am the earth that holds the roots of creation, thus, I say ‘I have been and never been and will always be’. For I alone exists without existing; I alone who consumes the inexhaustible and peers into the ends of infinity. For I am the wind that blows away the illusions of ‘ALL’ to the lucid truth of ‘NONE’, for I am life without existence till I am become ‘DEATH’ to live never and forever more.