Interior And Exterior Quotes

I want what we all want," said Carl. "To move certain parts of the interior of myself into the exterior world, to see if they can be embraced.

Sometimes it seemed like those with the most rotten interiors were blessed with the most exquisite exteriors.

They thought I suffered from lack of exterior, when I suffered from excess of interior

Yet, all armor—from a lobster’s shell to a Navy SEAL’s flak jacket—ultimately reveals the same truth. All armor highlights vulnerability. It trumpets the fact that below that hard exterior lies an interior that is soft, fragile, and in need of protection.

The time has come to realise that an interpretation of the universe—even a positivist one—remains unsatisfying unless it covers the interior as well as the exterior of things; mind as well as matter. The true physics is that which will, one day, achieve the inclusion of man in his wholeness in a coherent picture of the world.

Let us make our way through these low valleys of the humble and little virtues. We shall see in them the roses amid the thorns, charity that shows its beauty among interior and exterior afflictions, the lilies of purity.

There is an effective strategy open to architects. Whereas doctors deal with the interior organisms of man, architects deal with the exterior organisms of man. Architects might join with one another to carry on their work in laboratories as do doctors in anticipatory medicine.

There are just two things you need to fix here: the interior and the exterior.

I gradually became aware that my interiority was inseparable from my exteriority, that the geography of my city was the geography of my soul.

And as a fruit gradually ripening, your time will ripen, and by a natural process your interior and exterior will finally become smoothed out into one whole sheet.

Ciertas personas, en el afán de querer construir un mundo donde ninguna amenaza externa pueda penetrar, aumentan exageradamente sus defensas contra el exterior y dejan su interior desguarnecido.

Beautiful is he who recognizes what is truly beautiful, Even if the surface is ugly. Truthful is he who says what is true, Even if the truth is ugly. Ugly is he who measures beauty by its exterior, Without first weighing the interior. And ugly is the man who judges harshly what he sees looking out, Without first judging what he sees in the mirror. Suzy Kassem, Rise Up and Salute the Sun (2010)

a conclusão de que não há abismo, e que a infância não pára de desenvolver-se e crescer, é um novo princípio de realidade, de morte, de velhice: eu não deixo de viver no mundo interior e exterior das metamorfoses flutuantes; é já dia, mas a noite que conduz a esperança no pensamento, e sobre si própria, não acabou.

Life and light made up the interior, the realm of daytime. The exterior was darkness and night.

What treaty is it that finally separates those two territories, the hard resolve of our exteriors and the terrible disaster on our insides?

Look behind somebody’s horrible exterior, and you usually found a horrible interior, shaped by a horrible history.

His perfect face. His perfect body. His eyes as hard and beautiful as frozen gemstones. He repulses me. I want his exterior to match his broken black interior. I want to cripple his cockiness with the palm of my hand.

No hay más realidad que la que tenemos dentro. Por eso la mayoría de los seres humanos vive tan irrealmente; porque cree que las imágenes exteriores son la realidad y no permiten a su propio mundo interior manifestarse.

O, to be a ruler of life-- not a slave, To meet life as a powerful conqueror, No fumes-- no ennui-- no more complaints or scornful criticisms. O me repellent and ugly, O to these proud laws of the air, the water and the ground, proving my interior Soul impregnable, And nothing exterior shall ever take command of me.

Las cosas que vemos – dijo Pistorious con voz apagada – son las mismas cosas que llevamos en nosotros. No hay más realidad que la que tenemos dentro. Por eso la mayoría de los seres humanos vive tan irrealmente, porque cree que las imágenes exteriores son la realidad y no permiten a su propio mundo interior manifestarse. Se puede ser muy feliz así, desde luego. Pero cuando se conoce lo otro, ya no se puede elegir el camino de la mayoría. Sinclair, el camino de la mayoría es fácil, el nuestro, difícil. Caminemos.

Where are we—” Kyungsoo yelps as Jongin practically throws him over the window pane of a filthy-rich looking convertible, a treacherous little thing parked up against the curb, all black exteriors and plush white interiors, not even bothering to open the door, “going?” “To see fireflies,” Jongin says muffling coughs in his sleeves, and it’s only when Kyungsoo buckles up and looks over does he realize that the boy is grinning from ear to ear, “Real ones.

There are webs of complexity that tie everything together, and they are more numerous than the stars in the night sky. At the moment of self-organization of the bacterial membrane, complex feedback loops, both interoceptive and exteroceptive, immediately formed. Information from both locations began traveling in a huge, never-ending river composed of trillions upon trillions of bytes of data to the self-organized, more-than-the-sum-of-the-parts living system that had come into being. The system began, in that instant of self-organization, to modulate both its interior and exterior worlds in order to maintain its state. It began to modulate its environment.

When you discover yourself lying on the ground, limp and unresisting, head in the dirt, and helpless, the earth seems to shift forward as a presence; hard, emphatic, not mere surface but a genuine force—there is no other word for it but presence. To keep in motion is to keep in time and to be stopped, stilled, is to be abruptly out of time, in another time-dimension perhaps, an alien one, where human language has no resonance. Nothing to be said about it expresses it, nothing touches it, it’s an absolute against which nothing human can be measured…Moving through space and time by way of your own volition you inhabit an interior consciousness, a hallucinatory consciousness, it might be said, so long as breath, heartbeat, the body’s autonomy hold; when motion is stopped you are jarred out of it. The interior is invaded by the exterior. The outside wants to come in, and only the self’s fragile membrane prevents it.

Unfortunately, I'm drawn to a rare species of bad boy exterior/good guy interior. Give me a Harley Davidson and a pair of aviators and I'm weak in the knees." "I have a Harley," he blurted "I know

No se puede escribir un cuento, ni siquiera un verso bueno, si no hay una concepción del mundo. Y una buena escritura tiene que ser el resultado del deseo de explorar el universo, interior o exterior

Action without prayer thins out into something very exterior. A prayerless life can result in effective action and accomplish magnificent things, but if there is no developed interiority, the action never enters into the depth and intimacy of relationships.

REFLECTIONS OF A MIRROR Beautiful is he who recognizes what is truly beautiful, Even if the surface is ugly. Truthful is he who says what is true, Even if the truth is ugly. Ugly is he who measures beauty by its exterior, Without first weighing the interior. And ugly is the man who judges harshly what he sees looking out, Without first judging what he sees in the mirror.

By the time we grow up we become masters at dissimulation, at cultivating a self that the world cannot probe. But we pay a price. After years of turning people away, of protecting our inner self, of cultivating it by living in a different world, of furnishing this world with our fantasies and dreams—lo and behold we find that we are hopelessly separated from everyone else. We have become victims of our own art. We touch people on the outsides of their bodies, and they us, but we cannot get at their insides and cannot reveal our insides to them. This is one of the great tragedies of our interiority—it is utterly personal and unrevealable. Often we want to say something unusually intimate to a spouse, a parent, a friend, communicate something of how we are really feeling about a sunset, who we really feel we are—only to fall strangely and miserably flat. Once in a great while we succeed, sometimes more with one person, less or never with others. But the occasional break-through only proves the rule. You reach out with a disclosure, fail, and fall back bitterly into yourself. We emit huge globs of love to our parents and spouses, and the glob slithers away in exchange of words that are somehow beside the point of what we are trying to say. People seem to keep bumping up against each other with their exteriors and falling away from each other. The cartoonist Jules Feiffer is the modern master of this aspect of the human tragedy. Take even the sexual act—the most intimate merger given to organisms. For most people, even for their entire lives, it is simply a joining of exteriors. The insides melt only in the moment of orgasm, but even this is brief, and a melting is not a communication. It is a physical overcoming of separateness, not a symbolic revelation and justification of one’s interior. many people pursue sex precisely because it is a mystique of the overcoming of the separateness of the inner world, and they go from one partner to another because they can never quite achieve “it." So the endless interrogations: “What are you thinking about right now—me? Do you feel what I feel? Do you love me?

The sun was directly overhead, bright against the flower’s exterior. Warm blueish-purple silhouettes pirouetted and danced along interior walls.

JH, meu cavalheiro sem armadura, pois sua força interior sob o mais brando dos exteriores basta para conquistar.

I stepped inside and stopped, blinking in astonishment. From the exterior I'd expected a charming little book and curio shop with the inner dimensions of a university Starbucks. What I got was a cavernous interior that housed a display of books that made the library Disney's Beast gave to Beauty on their wedding day look understocked.

To look at a star by glances - to view it in a side-long way, by turning toward it the exterior portions of the retina (more susceptible of feeble impressions of light than the interior), is to behold the star distinctly - is to have the best appreciation of its lustre - a lustre which grows dim just in proportion as we turn our vision fully upon it.

el espacio interior del alma es igual de infinito y enigmático que el espacio cósmico exterior, y (...) tanto los cosmonautas del espacio exterior cuanto los del interior no pueden permanecer allí, sino que tienen que regresar a la tierra, a la conciencia cotidiana. además, ambos viajes exigen una buena preparación, para que puedan desarrollarse con un mínimo de peligro y convertirse en una empresa realmente enriquecedora.

REFLECTIONS FROM A MIRROR Beautiful is he who recognizes what is truly beautiful, Even if the surface is ugly. Truthful is he who says what is true, Even if the truth is ugly. Ugly is he who measures beauty by its exterior, Without first weighing the interior. And ugly is the man who judges harshly what he sees looking out, Without first judging what he sees in the mirror.

The interior landscape responds to the character and subtlety of an exterior landscape; the shape of the individual mind is affected by land as it is by genes.

No olvides que la belleza está en el exterior porque florece desde el interior, y que quien se mira y se sonríe, encuentra la belleza y la libertad en sí mismo.

I knew better. I wasn’t about digging up the painful past. Look behind somebody’s horrible exterior, and you usually found a horrible interior, shaped by a horrible history.

Exterior: the jungle. Interior: Dark night of the white man’s soul.

There can be such a gulf between one’s exterior and interior lives, and this should tell us something, it should teach us not to trust appearances too much; he who does so misses the essence.

We only experience a fraction of the reality we are a part of. What if we turn our eyes toward the interior of reality? Is it possible that the interior follows the patterns of the exterior? Might our state of consciousness reflect only a fraction of what may be potentially experienced?

Conquest directed toward the interior of the country is called repression or propaganda ("the first step on the road to hell," according to Frank). Directed toward the exterior, it creates the army.

Mindfulness isn't necessarily about awakening within. Awakening wisdom teaches me how my exterior and interior life are not separate. What happens in the world is happening within me, and vice versa.

To look at a star by glances—to view it in a side-long way, by turning toward it the exterior portions of the retina (more susceptible of feeble impressions of light than the interior), is to behold the star distinctly—is to have the best appreciation of its lustre—a lustre which grows dim just in proportion as we turn our vision fully upon it. A greater number of rays actually fall upon the eye in the latter case, but in the former, there is the more refined capacity for comprehension. By undue profundity we perplex and enfeeble thought; and it is possible to make even Venus herself vanish from the firmament by a scrutiny too sustained, too concentrated, or too direct.

Atisha says: Awareness inside, compassion on the outside. Compassion is the outer side of awareness, the exterior of awareness. Awareness is your interiority, subjectivity. Compassion is relating with others, sharing with others.

He was rowed down from the north in a leather skiff manned by a crew of trolls. His fur cape was caked with candle wax, his brow stained blue by wine - though the latter was seldom noticed due to the fox mask he wore at-all times. A quill in his teeth, a solitary teardrop a-squirm in his palm, he was the young poet prince of Montreal, handsome, immaculate, searching for sturdier doors to nail his poignant verses on. In Manhattan, grit drifted into his ink bottle. In Vienna, his spice box exploded. On the Greek island of Hydra, Orpheus came to him at dawn astride a transparent donkey and restrung his cheap guitar. From that moment on, he shamelessly and willingly exposed himself to the contagion of music. To the secretly religious curiosity of the traveler was added the openly foolhardy dignity of the troubadour. By the time he returned to America, songs were working in him like bees in an attic. Connoisseurs developed cravings for his nocturnal honey, despite the fact that hearts were occasionally stung. Now, thirty years later, as society staggers towards the millennium - nailing and screeching at the while, like an orangutan with a steak knife in its side - Leonard Cohen, his vision, his gift, his perseverance, are finally getting their due. It may be because he speaks to this wounded zeitgeist with particular eloquence and accuracy, it may be merely cultural time-lag, another example of the slow-to-catch-on many opening their ears belatedly to what the few have been hearing all along. In any case, the sparkle curtain has shredded, the boogie-woogie gate has rocked loose from its hinges, and here sits L. Cohen at an altar in the garden, solemnly enjoying new-found popularity and expanded respect. From the beginning, his musical peers have recognized Cohen´s ability to establish succinct analogies among life´s realities, his talent for creating intimate relationships between the interior world of longing and language and the exterior world of trains and violins. Even those performers who have neither "covered" his compositions nor been overtly influenced by them have professed to admire their artfulness: the darkly delicious melodies - aural bouquets of gardenia and thistle - that bring to mind an electrified, de-Germanized Kurt Weill; the playfully (and therefore dangerously) mournful lyrics that can peel the apple of love and the peach of lust with a knife that cuts all the way to the mystery, a layer Cole Porter just could`t expose. It is their desire to honor L. Cohen, songwriter, that has prompted a delegation of our brightest artists to climb, one by one, joss sticks smoldering, the steep and salty staircase in the Tower of Song.

Generally speaking, the main principles are as follows: (1) the use of initiative, flexibility and planning in conducting offensives within the defensive, battles of quick decision within protracted war, and exterior-line operations within interior-line operations; (2) co-ordination with regular warfare; (3) establishment of base areas; (4) the strategic defensive and the strategic offensive; (5) the development of guerrilla warfare into mobile warfare; and (6) correct relationship of command.

Ponerse un huipil era toda una iniciación, al hacerlo uno repetía diariamente el viaje interior hacie el exterior. Al meter la cabeza por el orificio del huipil, uno transitaba entre el mundo de sueños que está reflejado en el bordado hacia la vida que aparece en cuanto uno saca la cabeza.Ese despertar a la realidad es un acto ritual matutino que recuerda día a día el significado del nacimiento.Los huipiles la mantienen a una con la cabeza en el centro, cubierta por delante, por detrás y por los costados. Esta cruz que forma la tela bordada del huipil significa estar plantada en el centro del universo. Alumbrada por el sol y arropada por los cuatro vientos, los cuatro rumbos, los cuatro elemntos.

I am now at a time of life when I can look back on the past, for my soul has been refined in the crucible of interior and exterior trials. Now, like a flower after the storm, I can raise my head and see that the words of the Psalm are realised in me: "The Lord is my Shepherd and I shall want nothing. He hath set me in a place of pasture. He hath brought me up on the water of refreshment. He hath converted my soul. He hath led me on the paths of justice for His own Name's sake. For though I should walk in the midst of the shadow of death, I will fear no evils for Thou are with me."[6]

I think of two landscapes- one outside the self, the other within. The external landscape is the one we see-not only the line and color of the land and its shading at different times of the day, but also its plants and animals in season, its weather, its geology… If you walk up, say, a dry arroyo in the Sonoran Desert you will feel a mounding and rolling of sand and silt beneath your foot that is distinctive. You will anticipate the crumbling of the sedimentary earth in the arroyo bank as your hand reaches out, and in that tangible evidence you will sense the history of water in the region. Perhaps a black-throated sparrow lands in a paloverde bush… the smell of the creosote bush….all elements of the land, and what I mean by “the landscape.” The second landscape I think of is an interior one, a kind of projection within a person of a part of the exterior landscape. Relationships in the exterior landscape include those that are named and discernible, such as the nitrogen cycle, or a vertical sequence of Ordovician limestone, and others that are uncodified or ineffable, such as winter light falling on a particular kind of granite, or the effect of humidity on the frequency of a blackpoll warbler’s burst of song….the shape and character of these relationships in a person’s thinking, I believe, are deeply influenced by where on this earth one goes, what one touches, the patterns one observes in nature- the intricate history of one’s life in the land, even a life in the city, where wind, the chirp of birds, the line of a falling leaf, are known. These thoughts are arranged, further, according to the thread of one’s moral, intellectual, and spiritual development. The interior landscape responds to the character and subtlety of an exterior landscape; the shape of the individual mind is affected by land as it is by genes. Among the Navajo, the land is thought to exhibit sacred order…each individual undertakes to order his interior landscape according to the exterior landscape. To succeed in this means to achieve a balanced state of mental health…Among the various sung ceremonies of this people-Enemyway, Coyoteway, Uglyway- there is one called Beautyway. It is, in part, a spiritual invocation of the order of the exterior universe, that irreducible, holy complexity that manifests itself as all things changing through time (a Navajo definition of beauty).

I will talk about truth again, without which (without the word truth, without the mystery truth) there would be no writing. It is what writing wants. But it “(the truth)” is totally down below and a long way off. And all the people I love and whom I have mentioned are beings who are bent on directing their writing toward this truth-over-there, with unbelievable labor; they are fighting against the elements and principally agains the innumerable immediate exterior and interior enemies.

Las obras de amor al prójimo son la manifestación externa más perfecta de la gracia interior del Espíritu: «La principalidad de la ley nueva está en la gracia del Espíritu Santo, que se manifiesta en la fe que obra por el amor»[40]. Por ello explica que, en cuanto al obrar exterior, la misericordia es la mayor de todas las virtudes:

The first treatise on the interior of the body, which is to say, the treatise that gave the body an interior , written by Henri De Mondeville in the fourteenth century, argues that the body is a house, the house of the soul, which like any house can only be maintained as such by constant surveillance of its openings. The woman’s body is seen as an inadequate enclosure because its boundaries are convoluted. While it is made of the same material as a man’s body, it has ben turned inside out. Her house has been disordered, leaving its walls full of openings. Consequently, she must always occupy a second house, a building to protect her soul. Gradually this sense of vulnerability to the exterior was extended to all bodies which were then subjected to a kind of supervision traditionally given to the woman. The classical argument about her lack of self-control had been generalized.

Soy hija del desierto; nada interior parece exterior para mí.

Get your interior life right so your exterior life can flourish.

Technologies are not mere exterior aids but also interior transformations of consciousness and never more than when they affect the word.

This is not a matter of compromises or adaptations. The power of a new Middle Ages is needed. A change, interior as well as exterior, of barbaric purity is required. Philosophy, “culture”, everyday politics: no more of all that. It is not a matter of shifting to the other side of this bed of agony. It is a matter of finally waking up, and standing on one’s feet.

Encontrar a Fedro guiando a Sócrates casi al mismo sitio, quizá lo era, le había impresionado profundamente. El árbol de amplia copa, la verde ladera en que recostarse, el agua fría al pie; sólo faltaban las ofrendas votivas y el santuario. «Concededme ser hermoso por dentro ―había suplicado Sócrates― y haced que las cosas exteriores e interiores se reconcilien».

La evidencia física era la parte más significativa de la ecuación. Yo había cambiado, mi interior se había alterado hasta el punto de no ser reconocible. Incluso mi exterior parecía distinto, tenía el rostro cetrino, a excepción de las ojeras malvas que las pesadillas habían dejado bajo mis ojos, unos ojos bastante oscuros en contraste con mi piel pálida; tanto, que si yo hubiera sido hermosa y si se me miraba desde una cierta distancia, podría pasar ahora por un vampiro. Pero yo no era hermosa, y probablemente guardaba más parecido con un zombi.

A única realidade é aquela que se contém dentro de nós, e se os homens vivem tão irrealmente é porque aceitam como realidade as imagens exteriores e sufocam em si a voz do mundo interior. Também se pode ser feliz assim; mas quando se chega a conhecer o outro, torna-se impossível seguir o caminho da maioria. O caminho da maioria é fácil, o nosso é penoso. Caminhemos.

Los hesicastas aspiraban a conseguir la paz o la quietud para llegar a la unión íntima con Dios o la contemplación. Para ello cultivaban el silencio, tanto exterior como interior, ante todo por medio del control de los pensamientos. Esta corriente espiritual dentro del cristianismo oriental es casi una constante hasta nuestros días y va muy unida a la oración del corazón.

¿acaso no es como dije ya, la verdad en el arte, la expresión exterior de lo interior, en que se hace carne el alma y está en el cuerpo inanimado por el espíritu, aquello que se proyecta en la forma?

No one is a good historian of the patent, visible, striking, and public life of peoples, if he is not, at the same time, in a certain measure, the historian of their deep and hidden life; and no one is a good historian of the interior unless he understands how, at need, to be the historian of the exterior also...True history being a mixture of all things, the true historian mingles in everything.

Exista doua feluri de a simti singuratatea: a te simti singur în lume si a simti singuratatea lumii. Cînd te simti singur, traiesti o drama pur individuala; sentimentul parasirii este posibil chiar în cadrul unei splendori naturale. In acest caz, intereseaza numai nelinistile subiectivitatii tale. A te simti aruncat si suspendat în lume, incapabil de a te adapta ei, consumat în tine însuti, distrus de propriile tale deficiente sau exaltari, chinuit de insuficientele tale, indiferent de aspectele exterioare ale lumii, care pot fi stralucitoare sau sumbre, tu ramînînd în aceeasi drama launtrica, iata ce înseamna singuratate individuala.  Sentimentul singuratatii cosmice, desi se petrece tot într-un individ, deriva nu atît din framîntarea lui pur subiectiva cat din senzatia parasirii acestei lumi, a neantului exterior. Este ca si cum toate splendorile acestei lumi ar disparea deodata pentru ca monotonia esentiala a unui cimitir s-o simbolizeze. Sînt multi care se simt torturati de viziunea unei lumi parasite, iremediabil abandonate unei singuratati glaciale, pe care n-o ating, macar, nici slabele reflexe ale unei lumini crepusculare. Care sînt mai nefericiti, acei care simt singuratatea în ei, sau aceia care o simt în afara, în exterior? Imposibil de raspuns. Si apoi, de ce sa ma chinuiasca ierarhia singuratatii? A fi singur, în orice fel, nu e destul? Dau în scris, pentru toata lumea care va veni dupa mine, ca n-am în ce sa cred pe acest pamînt si ca unica scapare este uitarea absoluta. As vrea sa uit de tot, sa ma uit complet, sa nu mai stiu nimic de mine si de lumea aceasta. Adevaratele confesiuni nu se pot scrie decît cu lacrimi. Dar lacrimile mele ar îneca aceasta lume, precum focul meu interior ar incendia-o. N-am nevoie de nici un sprijin, de nici un îndemn si de nici o compatimire, caci desi sînt cel mai decazut om, ma simt totusi atît de puternic, atît de tare si de fioros! Caci sînt singurul om care traiesc fara speranta. Or, aceasta este culmea eroismului, paroxismul si paradoxul eroismului. Suprema nebunie! Toata pasiunea haotica si dezorientata din mine ar trebui s-o canalizez pentru a uita totul, pentru a nu mai fi nimic, pentru a scapa de spirit si de constiinta. Am si eu o speranta: speranta uitarii absolute. Dar aceasta mai e speranta, nu e ea disperare? Nu-i aceasta speranta negarea tuturor sperantelor viitoare? Vreau sa nu mai stiu nimic, nici macar sa stiu ca nu stiu nimic.

Civil order mattered. Zoe didn’t know why Farah continued to wear the headscarf, but most Middle-Eastern women wore modest clothing to anchor themselves to a moral order, in an upside-down world. Zoe wore the chador as a protective shell, to erase herself, to avoid thinking, to envelop herself in the complete custody of her adopted Muslim sisters. In their care she would come out healed, able to process the bigotry that caused the murder of her Jewish parents. Then, when she was whole again, she would reclaim her place in the world. Though others couldn’t see it, behind the nameless, shapeless, Middle-Eastern garb, she was healing. The chador cocooned and nurtured her. Dour exteriors meant blossoming interiors . . . to Zoe. Judaism centered her, but Islam shielded her. Both served their purpose . . . for now.

Nature maintains the same rhythm of birth and death in metals as in vegetables and animals. For, as Bernard Palissy writes in....(long french title of a book I don't feel like repeating here) 'God did not create all these things in order to leave them idle. The stars and the planets are not idle...the sea is in constant motion...the earth likewise is not idle...what is naturally consumed within her, she renews and refashions forthwith, if not in one way then in another. Everything, including the exterior of the Earth, exerts itself to bring something forth; likewise, the interior and matrix strains itself in order to reproduce.

Los huipiles hablaban, decían muchas cosas de las mujeres que los habían tejido, hablaban de su tiempo, de su condición social, de su estado civil, de su conexión con el cosmos. Ponerse un huipil era toda una iniciación, al hacerlo uno repetía diariamente el viaje interior hacia el exterior. Al meter la cabeza por el orificio del huipil, uno transitaba entre el mundo de sueños que está reflejado en el bordado hacia la vida que aparece. En cuanto uno saca la cabeza, ese despertar a la realidad es un acto ritual matutino que recuerda día a día el significado del nacimiento. Los huipiles lo mantienen a uno con la cabeza en el centro, cubierta por delante, por atrás y por los costados. Esta cruz que forma la tela bordada del huipil significa estar plantada en el centro del universo, alumbrada por el sol y arropada por los cuatro vientos, los cuatro rumbos, los cuatro elementos.

Let us take a limited example and compare the war machine and the state apparatus in the context of the theory of games. Let us take chess and Go, from the standpoint of game pieces, the relations between the pieces and the space involved. Chess is a game of the State, or of the court: the emperor of China played it. Chess pieces are coded; they have an internal nature and intrinsic properties from which their movements, situations, and confrontations derive. They have qualities; a knight remains a knight, a pawn a pawn, a bishop a bishop. Each is like a subject of the statement endowed with relative power, and these relative powers combine in a subject of enunciation, that is, the chess player or the game’s form of interiority. Go pieces, I contrast, are pellets, disks, simple arithmetic units, and have only an anonymous, collective, or third-person function: “It” makes a move. “It” could be a man, a woman, a louse, an elephant. Go pieces are elements of a nonsubjectified machine assemblage with no intrinsic properties, only situational ones. Thus the relations are very different in the two cases. Within their milieu of interiority, chess pieces entertain biunivocal relations with one another, and with the adversary’s pieces: their functioning is structural. One the other hand, a Go piece has only a milieu of exteriority, or extrinsic relations with nebulas or constellations, according to which it fulfills functions of insertion or situation, such as bordering, encircling, shattering. All by itself, a Go piece can destroy an entire constellation synchronically; a chess piece cannot (or can do so diachronically only). Chess is indeed a war, but an institutionalized, regulated, coded war with a front, a rear, battles. But what is proper to Go is war without battle lines, with neither confrontation nor retreat, without battles even: pure strategy, whereas chess is a semiology. Finally, the space is not at all the same: in chess, it is a question of arranging a closed space for oneself, thus going from one point to another, of occupying the maximum number of squares with the minimum number of pieces. In Go, it is a question of arraying oneself in an open space, of holding space, of maintaining the possibility of springing up at any point: the movement is not from one point to another, but becomes perpetual, without aim or destination, without departure or arrival. The “smooth” space of Go, as against the “striated” space of chess. The nomos of Go against the State of chess, nomos against polis. The difference is that chess codes and decodes space, whereas Go proceeds altogether differently, territorializing and deterritorializing it (make the outside a territory in space; consolidate that territory by the construction of a second, adjacent territory; deterritorialize the enemy by shattering his territory from within; deterritorialize oneself by renouncing, by going elsewhere…) Another justice, another movement, another space-time.

I was once, I remember, called to a patient who had received a violent contusion in his tibia, by which the exterior cutis was lacerated, so that there was a profuse sanguinary discharge; and the interior membranes were so divellicated, that the os or bone very plainly appeared through the aperture of the vulnus or wound. Some febrile symptoms intervening at the same time (for the pulse was exuberant and indicated much phlebotomy), I apprehended an immediate mortification. To prevent which, I presently made a large orifice in the vein of the left arm, whence I drew twenty ounces of blood; which I expected to have found extremely sizy and glutinous, or indeed coagulated, as it is in pleuretic complaints; but, to my surprize, it appeared rosy and florid, and its consistency differed little from the blood of those in perfect health. I then applied a fomentation to the part, which highly answered the intention;

The saints tell us that usually, even in the very midst of exterior and interior trials, a deep-seated peace is felt. Persevering in the midst of these trials is a very important part of uniting our will to God's—and in His will is our peace.

To try to understand the experience of another it is necessary to dismantle the world as seen from one's own place within it, and to reassemble it as seen from his. For example, to understand a given choice another makes, one must face in imagination the lack of choices which may confront and deny him. The well-fed are incapable of understanding the choices of the under-fed. The world has to be dismantled and re-assembled in order to be able to grasp, however clumsily, the experience of another. To talk of entering the other's subjectivity is misleading. The subjectivity of another does not simply constitute a different interior attitude to the same exterior facts. The constellation of facts, of which he is the centre, is different.

My entire life I watched people allow the world to shape them, to dictate their choices, to mold them into the clay globe that is earth. To be part of, to fit in. I watched their interior and exterior layers be thinned out by society. But me? I'm like an open wound, instead. I'm the thing you can't bandage. I'm that ugly scar that isn't going away. I'm a reminder of pain, of truth, of brutality. Nobody likes brutality. Nobody likes harsh truths. And, you know what? I'm fucking okay with that.

Everything, which we invent, discover and in a higher sense name, is the meaningful execution and proof of the existence of an original sense of truth, which quietly long formed, leads immediately, with lightning speed, to a fruitful insight. It is a revelation, which develops from the interior according to the exterior and allows humans to glimpse their similarity with god. It is a synthesis of the world and of spirit-mind (Geist), which conveys the most soulful reassurance of the eternal harmony of existence.

Se desarrolla entonces toda una problemática: la de una arquitectura que ya no está hecha simplemente para ser vista (fausto de los palacios) o para vigilar el espacio exterior (geometría de las fortalezas) sino para permitir un control interior, articulado y detallado (...); en términos generales, la de una arquitectura que habría de ser un operador para la transformación de los individuos: obrar sobre aquellos a quienes abriga, permitir apresar su conducta, conducir hasta ellos los efectos del poder, darlos a conocer, modificarlos.

Que nosso fogo interno esteja ao máximo, para esquentar a regra ao rubro e modificá-la! Que nossa realidade interior seja tão forte que corrija a realidade exterior! E que nossas paixões sejam devorantes, mas que tenhamos um apetite de viver ainda maior, para devorá-las!

A helpful image to express this sort of thing is a wheel with spokes centered on a single hub. The hub of the wheel is God; we the spokes. Out on the rim of the wheel the spokes are furthest from one another, but at the center, the hub, the spokes are most united to each other. They are a single meeting in the one hub. The image was used in the early church to say something important about that level of life at which we are one with each other and one with God. The more we journey towards the Center the closer we are both to God and to each other. The problem of feeling isolated from both God and others is overcome in the experience of the Center. This journey into God and the profound meeting of others in the inner ground of silence is a single movement. Exterior isolation is overcome in interior communion.

No son ever develops into manhood without, in some way, being disloyal to his mother. If he remains with her, to comfort her and console her, then he never gets out of his mother complex. Often a mother will do all she can to keep her son with her. One of the most subtle ways is to encourage him the idea of being loyal to her; but if he gives in to her completely then she often finds herself with a son severely injured in his masculinity. The son must ride off and leave his mother, even if it appears to mean disloyalty, and the mother must bear this pain. Later, like Parsifal, the son may come back to the mother and they may find a new relationship, on a new level; but this can only be done after the son has first achieved his independence and transferred his affection to a woman, either in an interior way with his own inner feminine side or in an exterior way with a real female companion of his own age. In our myth, Parsifal's mother died when he left. Perhaps she represents the kind of woman who can only exist as a mother, who dies when this role is taken from her because she does not understand how to be an individual woman, but only a "mother.

Nuestro mundo exterior será siempre un reflejo de nuestro mundo interior. Nuestro éxito irá siempre en paralelo a nuestro desarrollo personal. Difícilmente alcanzaremos el éxito si no dedicamos tiempo cada día a convertirnos en la persona que tenemos que ser para conseguir la vida que queremos.

Nos sentimos tentados a creerlos caprichos nuestros, creaciones propias, vemos vacilar y disolverse la frontera entre nosotros y la naturaleza, y adquirimos conciencia de un estado de ánimo en el que no sabemos si las imágenes en nuestra retina provienen de impresiones exteriores o interiores. En ningún otro momento descubrimos con tanta facilidad la medida en que somos creadores, en que nuestra alma participa constantemente en la recreación de la vida. Una misma divinidad invisible actúa en nosotros y en la naturaleza, y si el mundo exterior desapareciera, cualquiera de nosotros sería capaz de reconstruirlo, porque los montes y los ríos, los árboles y las hojas, las raíces y las flores, todo lo creado en la naturaleza, está ya prefigurado en nosotros: proviene del alma, cuya esencia es eterna, y escapa a nuestro conocimiento, pero que se nos hace patente como fuerza amorosa y creadora.

The art of fiction has not changed much since prehistoric times. The formula for telling a powerful story has remained the same: create a strong character, a person of great strengths, capable of deep emotions and decisive action. Give him a weakness. Set him in conflict with another powerful character -- or perhaps with nature. Let his exterior conflict be the mirror of the protagonist's own interior conflict, the clash of his desires, his own strength against his own weakness. And there you have a story. Whether it's Abraham offering his only son to God, or Paris bringing ruin to Troy over a woman, or Hamlet and Claudius playing their deadly game, Faust seeking the world's knowledge and power -- the stories that stand out in the minds of the reader are those whose characters are unforgettable. To show other worlds, to describe possible future societies and the problems lurking ahead, is not enough. The writer of science fiction must show how these worlds and these futures affect human beings. And something much more important: he must show how human beings can and do literally create these future worlds. For our future is largely in our own hands. It doesn't come blindly rolling out of the heavens; it is the joint product of the actions of billions of human beings. This is a point that's easily forgotten in the rush of headlines and the hectic badgering of everyday life. But it's a point that science fiction makes constantly: the future belongs to us -- whatever it is. We make it, our actions shape tomorrow. We have the brains and guts to build paradise (or at least try). Tragedy is when we fail, and the greatest crime of all is when we fail even to try. Thus science fiction stands as a bridge between science and art, between the engineers of technology and the poets of humanity.

Familiarity with the Word of God is more than memorizing scriptures. The more time we spend reading the Bible, the more it permeates our beings and clarifies the voices within us. Many confuse things and divide the world of our existence into the interior and the exterior. These are the people who would say that the spirit and the soul are the same thing, but that is not true. Like the Trinity—God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit—each of us is also three parts— soul, body, and spirit. How can you tell the difference between the thoughts of your own soul, which come from your mind, will, or emotions; your physical desires, hungers, and urges; and the communications of your spirit, which have ears in the spiritual realm? When a thought comes to mind, where is it coming from— God, evil, your physical urges, or your own psyche? The answer to discerning the difference between these “voices in our heads” is learned through practice and repetition, with the Bible as your personal trainer. It is the mirror into which we look and learn who we truly are. (See James 1:23–25.)

Practicăm alchimia pe dos: atingem aurul şi-l prefacem în plumb; atingem liricul pur al experienţei şi-l prefacem în echivalente verbale de măruntaie şi lături. Cât de intolerabil de rudimentară ne este limba! Dacă nu menţionezi corelativele filosofice ale emoţiei, prezinţi denaturat faptele. Dar dacă le menţionezi, rişti să apari cinic şi vulgar. Că e pasiunea sau atracţia moliei pentru stea, că e tandreţe, adoraţie sau năzuinţă romantică — iubirea este însoţită de fenomene la nivelul terminaţiilor nervoase, al pielii, al membranelor mucoase sau ţesuturilor glandulare şi erectile. Cei ce nu spun asta sunt mincinoşi. Cei ce o spun sunt catalogaţi obsceni. Bineînţeles, vina o poartă filosofia noastră de viaţă; şi filosofia noastră de viaţă este în mod inevitabil un produs adiacent al limbii care separă în idee ceea ce în fapt ese întotdeauna inseparabil. Separă şi evaluează în acelaşi timp. Una dintre abstracţii este «bine»; cealaltă «rău». Nu judecaţi ca să nu fiţi judecaţi. Dar limba are o astfel de natură, încât nu poţi să nu judeci. Ceea ce ne trebuie cu adevărat este un alt set de cuvinte, cuvinte care să poată exprima unitatea naturală a lucrurilor. Tot ce-ţi rămâne de făcut este să te bălăceşti în metafore. O soluţie suprasaturată de sentimente ce poate fi cristalizată fie din interior, fie din exterior. Cuvinte şi evenimente ce cad în supa psiho-fizică şi o îngroaşă cu cheagurile producătoare de acţiune ale emoţiei şi sentimentului.

Depende de como você entende essa palavra, "esotérico" significa interno. O esoterismo encerra a idéia da existência de um círculo interno da humanidade. Lembra-se de como a humanidade foi descrita como constituída de quatro círculos - o esotérico, o mesotérico e o exotérico, que formam o círculo interior, e o círculo exterior no qual vivemos? A idéia de esoterismo implica a idéia de transmissão do conhecimento; presume a existência de um grupo de pessoas a quem pertence um certo conhecimento. Não se deve compreender isso de alguma forma mística, porém mais precisamente, de forma concreta. Há muitas diferenças entre os círculos interno e externo. Por exemplo, muitas coisas que queremos descobrir ou criar só podem existir no círculo interno.

We come into contact with people only with our exteriors—physically and externally; yet each of us walks about with a great wealth of interior life, a private and secret self. We are, in reality, somewhat split in two, the self and the body; the one hidden, the other open. The child learns very quickly to cultivate this private self because it puts a barrier between him and the demands of the world. He learns he can keep secrets—at first an excruciating, intolerable burden: it seems that the outer world has every right to penetrate into his self and that the parents could automatically do so if they wished—they always seem to know just what he is thinking and feeling. But then he discovers that he can lie and not be found out: it is a great and liberating moment, this anxious first lie—it represents the staking out of his claim to an integral inner self, free from the prying eyes of the world. By the time we grow up we become masters at dissimulation, at cultivating a self that the world cannot probe. But we pay a price. After years of turning people away, of protecting our inner self, of cultivating it by living in a different world, of furnishing this world with our fantasies and dreams—we find that we are hopelessly separated from everyone else. We have become victims of our own art. We touch people on the outsides of their bodies, and they us, but we cannot get at their insides and cannot reveal our insides to them. This is one of the great tragedies of our interiority—it is utterly personal and unrevealable. Often we want to say something unusually intimate to a spouse, a parent, a friend, communicate something of how we are really feeling about a sunset, who we really feel we are—only to fall strangely and miserably flat. Once in a great while we succeed, sometimes more with one person, less or never with others. But the occasional breakthrough only proves the rule. You reach out with a disclosure, fail, and fall back bitterly into yourself. We emit huge globs of love to our parents and spouses, and the glob slithers away in exchanges of words that are somehow beside the point of what we are trying to say. People seem to keep bumping up against each other with their exteriors and falling away from each other. The cartoonist Jules Feiffer is the modern master of this aspect of the human tragedy. Take even the sexual act—the most intimate merger given to organisms. For most people, even for their entire lives, it is simply a joining of exteriors. The insides melt only in the moment of orgasm, but even this is brief, and a melting is not a communication. It is a physical overcoming of separateness, not a symbolic revelation and justification of one’s interior. Many people pursue sex precisely because it is a mystique of the overcoming of the separateness of the inner world; and they go from one partner to another because they can never quite achieve “it.” So the endless interrogations: “What are you thinking about right now—me? Do you feel what I feel? Do you love me?

Pilgrimage always involves both an exterior and interior journey. Any travel can be a pilgrimage, regardless of the destination or whether or not there even is a destination. The difference between a pilgrim and a tourist is the intention of attention and openness to God. This transforms a trip into a pilgrimage, and the result is that the self that sets out on pilgrimage will not be the same as the self that returns.

Because of this false idea, they devised an aesthetic belief in making the exterior of an object a reflection of the practical functions of the interior and of the constructive idea. Yet these analyses of utility and necessity that, according to their beliefs, should be the basis for the construction of any object created by humanity become immediately absurd once we analyze all the object being manufactured today. A fork or a bed cannot come to be considered necessary for humanity's life and health, and yet retain a relative value. They are 'learned necessities.' Modern human beings are suffocating under necessities like televisions, refrigerators, etc. And in the process making it impossible to live their real lives. Obviously we are not against modern technology, but we are against any notion of the absolute necessity of objects, to the point even of doubting their real utility.' Asger Jorn

Gazing into the heavens on a starry night a person sees the reflection of their own soul staring back at them. Perceiving our microscopic place in the revolving cosmos, we search to ascertain a meaning for our existence; we stretch our minds to comprehend a reason that justifies our fleeting journey in a universe composed of dark energy. Comprehension of a full-bodied meaning for living seems to lie just beyond my grasp. Perhaps I struggle dialing into a meaning for life because living entails adapting to a constant state of chaos. Can I harmonize the noisy commotion and distracting clutter in my life? I need to overcome personal inertia by learning to become comfortable with these changing times. In actuality, I have no choice but to capitulate to the evolution of facets in the world. Everything in the universe is undergoing constant change. Alike all humankind, I am also in the process of evolving. Who I was will undoubtedly affect who I will become. Who I am now is not who I will always be. The demands imposed upon us by the exterior world prevent stagnation of our interior world. We must all respond to change by either growing or dying. Even a blockhead such as me proves alterable, because inherent mutability ensures the survival of all persons. The entire world is interconnected; we are part of the cosmic consciousness. Many factors beyond our direct control influence us.

Not Everything Can Be Hidden Some nice accessories makeup and a new outfit won't hide how abused i've been And a large house glass doors and a nice little garden can't hide how broken this family is Just because something has a nice expensive new looking exterior doesn't mean the interior isn't broken and bent Not everything can be hidden behind a pair of nice glass doors, you know. after all The doors are transparent and so are the people trying to hide behind them

Joys of the thought of Death, the great spheres Time and Space? Prophetic joys of better, loftier love’s ideals, the divine wife, the sweet, eternal, perfect comrade? Joys all thine own undying one, joys worthy thee O soul. O while I live to be the ruler of life, not a slave, To meet life as a powerful conqueror, No fumes, no ennui, no more complaints or scornful criticisms, To these proud laws of the air, the water and the ground, proving my interior soul impregnable, And nothing exterior shall ever take command of me.

Now, if they who are in this state knew how to be quiet, to disregard every interior and exterior work—“for the accomplishment of which they labor”—to be without solicitude about everything, “and resign themselves into the hands of God, with a loving interior obedience to His voice,”3 they would have, in this tranquility, a most delicious sense of this interior food. This food is so delicate that, in general, it eludes our perceptions if we make any special effort to feel it, for, as I am saying, it does its work when the soul is most tranquil and free; it is like the air which vanishes when we shut our hands to grasp it. 9. The words of the Bridegroom which, addressed to the bride, in the Canticles, are applicable to this matter: “Turn away thine eyes from me, for they have made me flee away.”4 For this is God’s way of bringing the soul into this state; the road by which He leads it is so different from the first, that if it will do anything in its own strength, it will hinder rather than aid His work. It was far otherwise once. 10. The reason is

Unfortunately, most researchers studying gating dynamics in children are, as with “schizophrenia,” focused on “normal” versus “abnormal” gating. And all children are expected to fit into the defined “normal” range of behavior. Sensory gating dynamics outside that culturally determined “norm” are defined as abnormal and researchers note that Individuals with these characteristics have been classified as having sensory processing deficits (SPD). Such behaviors disrupt an individual’s ability to achieve and maintain an optimal range of performance necessary to adapt to challenges in life. The manifestations of SPD may include distraction, impulsiveness, abnormal activity level, disorganization, anxiety, and emotional lability that produce deficient social participation, insufficient self-regulation and inadequate perceived competence.1 Those terms, if you look at them more closely, are exterior, “authority” generated terms; they relate directly to the paradigm in place in those authorities. They really don’t have much to say about the interior experience of the children so labeled.

- As coisas que observamos - murmurou o Pistorius - são as mesmas que se encontram em nós. Não existe realidade para além daquela que está no nosso íntimo. A razão pela qual as pessoas vivem tão ficticiamente é tomarem por realidade as figuras do exterior, enquanto que, ao seu próprio interior, não o suportam. É possível ser-se feliz deste modo; porém, após uma pessoa tomar conhecimento do que há para além disto, deixa de ter hipótese de optar por seguir o caminho dos demais. Sinclair, o caminho da maioria da gente é fácil, o nosso é difícil...

It is often said that what most immediately sets English apart from other languages is the richness of its vocabulary. Webster’s Third New International Dictionary lists 450,000 words, and the revised Oxford English Dictionary has 615,000, but that is only part of the total. Technical and scientific terms would add millions more. Altogether, about 200,000 English words are in common use, more than in German (184,000) and far more than in French (a mere 100,000). The richness of the English vocabulary, and the wealth of available synonyms, means that English speakers can often draw shades of distinction unavailable to non-English speakers. The French, for instance, cannot distinguish between house and home, between mind and brain, between man and gentleman, between “I wrote” and “I have written.” The Spanish cannot differentiate a chairman from a president, and the Italians have no equivalent of wishful thinking. In Russia there are no native words for efficiency, challenge, engagement ring, have fun, or take care [all cited in The New York Times, June 18, 1989]. English, as Charlton Laird has noted, is the only language that has, or needs, books of synonyms like Roget’s Thesaurus. “Most speakers of other languages are not aware that such books exist” [The Miracle of Language, page 54]. On the other hand, other languages have facilities we lack. Both French and German can distinguish between knowledge that results from recognition (respectively connaître and kennen) and knowledge that results from understanding (savoir and wissen). Portuguese has words that differentiate between an interior angle and an exterior one. All the Romance languages can distinguish between something that leaks into and something that leaks out of. The Italians even have a word for the mark left on a table by a moist glass (culacino) while the Gaelic speakers of Scotland, not to be outdone, have a word for the itchiness that overcomes the upper lip just before taking a sip of whiskey. (Wouldn’t they just?) It’s sgriob. And we have nothing in English to match the Danish hygge (meaning “instantly satisfying and cozy”), the French sang-froid, the Russian glasnost, or the Spanish macho, so we must borrow the term from them or do without the sentiment. At the same time, some languages have words that we may be pleased to do without. The existence in German of a word like schadenfreude (taking delight in the misfortune of others) perhaps tells us as much about Teutonic sensitivity as it does about their neologistic versatility. Much the same could be said about the curious and monumentally unpronounceable Highland Scottish word sgiomlaireachd, which means “the habit of dropping in at mealtimes.” That surely conveys a world of information about the hazards of Highland life—not to mention the hazards of Highland orthography. Of

It would seem that the author’s name, unlike other proper names, does not pass from the interior of a discourse to the real and exterior individual who produced it; instead, the name seems always to be present, marking off the edges of the text, revealing, or at least characterizing, its mode of being. The author’s name manifests the appearance of a certain discursive set and indicates the status of this discourse within a society and a culture. It has no legal status, nor is it located in the fiction of the work; rather, it is located in the break that founds a certain discursive construct and its very particular mode of being. As a result, we could say that in a civilization like our own there are a certain number of discourses that are endowed with the “author-function”, while others are deprived of it. A private letter may well have a signer_ it does not have an author; a contract may well have a guarantor_ it does not have an author. An anonymous text posted on a wall probably has a writer_ but not an author. The author-function is therefore characteristic of the mode of existence, circulation, and functioning of certain discourses within a society.

El mundo fantástico son las tinieblas que hay en el interior de nuestra mente. Antes de que en el siglo XIX Freud y Jung arrojaran luz sobre todo esto con sus análisis del subconsciente, la correlación entre ambas tinieblas era, para la mayoría de las personas, un hecho tan obvio que no valía la pena pararse a reflexionar sobre él. Ni siquiera era una metáfora. Y si nos remitimos a épocas anteriores, ni siquiera era una correlación. Hasta que Edison inventó la luz eléctrica, la mayor parte del mundo vivía, literalmente, envuelto en unas tinieblas tan negras como la laca. Y no existía frontera alguna entre las tinieblas físicas del exterior y las tinieblas interiores del alma, ambas se entremezclaban. Más aún, se confundían en una. De esta manera. -Y Oshima aprieta la palma de una mano contra la otra-. En la época en que vivía Murasaki Shikibu, los espíritus vivos eran a la vez un fenómeno fantástico y una disposición del espíritu de lo más normal, algo que estaba allí. Pensar en estas dos clases de oscuridad como algo separado era algo que, probablemente, no pudiera hacer la gente de aquella época. Pero para nosotros, que estamos en el mundo actual, las cosas son distintas. Las tinieblas del mundo exterior han desaparecido, pero las tinieblas de nuestra alma continúan inalteradas. Una gran parte de lo que llamamos yo o consciencia permanece oculta en el reino de las tinieblas, como un iceberg. Esta disociación, en algunos casos, crea en nosotros confusión y grandes contradicciones

The color is yet another variant in another dimension of variation, that of its relations with the surroundings: this red is what it is only by connecting up from its place with other reds about it, with which it forms a constellation, or with other colors it dominates or that dominate it, that it attracts or that attracts it, that it repels or that repel it. In short, it is a certain node in the woof of the simultaneous and the successive. It is a concretion of visibility, it is not an atom. The red dress a fortiori holds with all its fibers onto the fabric of the visible, and thereby onto a fabric of invisible being. A punctuation in the field of red things, which includes the tiles of roof tops, the flags of gatekeepers and of the Revolution, certain terrains near Aix or in Madagascar, it is also a punctuation in the field of red garments, which includes, along with the dresses of women, robes of professors, bishops, and advocate generals, and also in the field of adornments and that of uniforms. And its red literally is not the same as it appears in one constellation or in the other, as the pure essence of the Revolution of 1917 precipitates in it, or that of the eternal feminine, or that of the public prosecutor, or that of the gypsies dressed like hussars who reigned twenty-five years ago over an inn on the Champs-Elysées. A certain red is also a fossil drawn up from the depths of imaginary worlds. If we took all these participations into account, we would recognize that a naked color, and in general a visible, is not a chunk of absolutely hard, indivisible being, offered all naked to a vision which could be only total or null, but is rather a sort of straits between exterior horizons and interior horizons ever gaping open, something that comes to touch lightly and makes diverse regions of the colored or visible world resound at the distances, a certain differentiation, an ephemeral modulation of this world—less a color or a thing, therefore, than a difference between things and colors, a momentary crystallization of colored being or of visibility. Between the alleged colors and visibles, we would find anew the tissue that lines them, sustains them, nourishes them, and which for its part is not a thing, but a possibility, a latency, and a flesh of things.

My hair floated out around me with the evening breeze, and Romeo caught a strand of it before he opened the door to the car. “You really do look beautiful,” he murmured, dipping his head low. “Thanks,” I said against his lips. His kiss ignited instant desire inside me. Even though I spent last night with him, and the night before, I missed him terribly. I felt like we hadn’t had enough alone time. I wanted more. I wanted so much more. He groaned and pulled back. “Let’s get this dinner over with,” he said grumpily. “I want to spend some time alone with you.” “You read my mind.” “Now that the season is over, we’ll have more time together.” “Want to just go to Taco Bell and hide at your place?” I asked when he slid into the driver’s seat. He laughed. The sound filled the interior of the car. “Why, Rimmel,”— he pressed a hand to his chest like he was scandalized—“ are you suggesting we stand up my mother?” I giggled. “I knew it,” he drawled. “Underneath that sweet exterior lies the heart of a baddie baddie.” I laughed out loud. “A baddie baddie?” “Like totally,” he said in a valley girl voice and pretended to flip the long hair he didn’t have. God, I loved him. “So what do you say?” I taunted as I smiled. “Want to play hookie?” He groaned. “I’d love to, baby, but we can’t.” I stuck out my tongue. “Watch what you do with that thing, baby girl.” “Yeah? Or what?” I challenged. “Or we might be late and I might mess up the perfect hair and makeup you got going on.” His eyes twinkled and he fake gasped as he put the car in gear. “Just what would mother say?

To the door of an inn in the provincial town of N. there drew up a smart britchka—a light spring-carriage of the sort affected by bachelors, retired lieutenant-colonels, staff-captains, land-owners possessed of about a hundred souls, and, in short, all persons who rank as gentlemen of the intermediate category. In the britchka was seated such a gentleman—a man who, though not handsome, was not ill-favoured, not over-fat, and not over-thin. Also, though not over-elderly, he was not over-young. His arrival produced no stir in the town, and was accompanied by no particular incident, beyond that a couple of peasants who happened to be standing at the door of a dramshop exchanged a few comments with reference to the equipage rather than to the individual who was seated in it. "Look at that carriage," one of them said to the other. "Think you it will be going as far as Moscow?" "I think it will," replied his companion. "But not as far as Kazan, eh?" "No, not as far as Kazan." With that the conversation ended. Presently, as the britchka was approaching the inn, it was met by a young man in a pair of very short, very tight breeches of white dimity, a quasi-fashionable frockcoat, and a dickey fastened with a pistol-shaped bronze tie-pin. The young man turned his head as he passed the britchka and eyed it attentively; after which he clapped his hand to his cap (which was in danger of being removed by the wind) and resumed his way. On the vehicle reaching the inn door, its occupant found standing there to welcome him the polevoi, or waiter, of the establishment—an individual of such nimble and brisk movement that even to distinguish the character of his face was impossible. Running out with a napkin in one hand and his lanky form clad in a tailcoat, reaching almost to the nape of his neck, he tossed back his locks, and escorted the gentleman upstairs, along a wooden gallery, and so to the bedchamber which God had prepared for the gentleman's reception. The said bedchamber was of quite ordinary appearance, since the inn belonged to the species to be found in all provincial towns—the species wherein, for two roubles a day, travellers may obtain a room swarming with black-beetles, and communicating by a doorway with the apartment adjoining. True, the doorway may be blocked up with a wardrobe; yet behind it, in all probability, there will be standing a silent, motionless neighbour whose ears are burning to learn every possible detail concerning the latest arrival. The inn's exterior corresponded with its interior. Long, and consisting only of two storeys, the building had its lower half destitute of stucco; with the result that the dark-red bricks, originally more or less dingy, had grown yet dingier under the influence of atmospheric changes. As for the upper half of the building, it was, of course, painted the usual tint of unfading yellow. Within, on the ground floor, there stood a number of benches heaped with horse-collars, rope, and sheepskins; while the window-seat accommodated a sbitentshik[1], cheek by jowl with a samovar[2]—the latter so closely resembling the former in appearance that, but for the fact of the samovar possessing a pitch-black lip, the samovar and the sbitentshik might have been two of a pair.

- Que ondas enormes... - exclamou Thomas Buddenbrook.- Repara como se aproximam e rebentam, se aproximam e rebentam, uma atrás da outra, sem fim, sem propósito, mecânica e desordenadamente. E, no entanto, o seu marulhar é tão tranquilizador e reconfortante, como todas as coisas simples e necessárias da vida. Aprendi a gostar cada vez mais do mar... dantes, talvez preferisse as montanhas, porque ficavam mais longe daqui. Agora já não me atraem nada. Creio que apenas sentiria medo e vergonha. É que elas são muito caprichosas, tão irregulares, tão diversas... de certeza que me iria sentir muito pequeno ao pé delas. Que espécie de pessoas serão essas que preferem a monotonia do mar? Tenho a impressão de que são as que observaram por demasiado tempo- e com demasiada profundidade- as teias do seu mundo interior e que a única coisa que exigem agora, pelo menos do mundo exterior, é simplicidade... Não se trata de comparar as escaladas audazes pela montanha com o descanso sereno na areia da praia. Adiferença reside no olhar que se dirige numa e noutra direcção. Olhos seguros, obstinados e felizes, transbordantes de iniciativa, determinação e vitalidade, erram de cume em cume, ao passo que sobre a imensidão do mar- e das ondas que, conduzidas por um fatalismo místico e hipnótico, dançam e volteiam- repousa um olhar sonhador e velado, sábio e desalentado, o olhar de quem já alguma vez espreitou as profundezas e vislumbrou o triste caos da existência... Saúde e doença, é essa a grande diferença. Intrépidos, escalamos a extraordinária diversidade das montanhas denteadas e acidentadas, das alturas que rasgam os céus, a fim de pormos à prova a nossa vitalidade, intacta ainda. Repousamos, contudo, na ampla simplicidadedo mundo exterior, quando estamos cansados do caos que reina no interior.

Lumea în care trăim ne-a condiționat să ne transferăm nemulțumirea interioară către exterior, fie învinuindu-i pe ceilalți, fie în adicții cum ar fi cumpărături sau consumul de substanțe. Când simțim zgomotul deconectării interioare, presupunem imediat că lipsește ceva din exterior. Așadar, data viitoare când cauți să dai vina pe ceva din exterior, să repari, să consumi sau să faci ceva pentru a te simți fericită și cu o viață importantă, fă o pauză și întreabă-te ce-ți lipsește acum. Răspunsul va avea adesea legătură cu o căutare a semnificației. Poate cauți validarea, aprobarea, sentimentul de apartenență, nevoia de dragoste sau aprecierea din partea unei anumite persoane. Asta îți lipsește, nu acel „lucru” din afară. Vindecă-ți nevoile săpând în interior. În timp ce faci asta, misiunea exterioară se schimbă. Ceea ce credeam că ne va împlini își pierde puterea. Numai când suntem capabile să ne oprim, să pășim în interior și să punem întrebările pe care le-am sugerat eu putem începe să ne „dezaburim” percepțiile și să realizăm că tot ceea ce ne lipsește a fost dintotdeauna în noi.

Our plastic susceptibility to forces of technocapitalism as well as different explosions in the streets and in our neighbourhoods (if not in our houses) is an opportunity for the revolutionary subject of trauma. If capitalism and terrorism are transplanted within us with such ease that we can no longer see them as threat to the plasticity of our brains, so do the other traumas from which capitalism, state and religion run away. As opposed to capitalism, the state and other grounding systems which preserve their verity by isolating fields of trauma in order to protect themselves against syntheses of the universal absolute, the brain has the ability to reconnect all isolated traumas within its plastic field and expand along the mediating functions of trauma. The obligation of the revolutionary subject with regard to exporting the revolution is not to shun traumas of capitalism and fundamentalism, since this refusal or disavowal contributes to the strategy of capitalism and fundamentalism in isolating traumas, forces and resources in order to govern and monopolize them within this or that world. On the contrary, the obligation of the revolutionary subject is to absorb and interiorize traumas so as to expose ‘isolated traumas’ (this or that regional world), interconnect them to its regional horizon and widen them across the geocosmic continuum and deep into the cosmic exteriority. Modern man is a surgeon who does not amputate himself from the worlds of capitalism and religion. Instead, he transplants himself and these worlds inside each other in order to reconnect his actual regional horizon (cohabited with capitalism and fundamentalism) once again to the freedom of absolute depths. To this end, the revolution on the geocosmic continuum that is the revolution rekindled out of the Copernican commune should not be paved on the politico- philosophical corpus of those who impose on us wanton discrepancies and excesses of the earthly life but those who delude us with the axiomatic verity of ourselves and reform the ground of the terrestrial thought in one way or another.