Oblivion Is Bliss Quotes

Then she was kissing him as she had never kissed him before...and it was blissful oblivion, better than firewhisky; she was the only real thing in the world.

So then I thought, I'd like you to have something to remember me by, you know, if you ever meet some veela when you're off doing whatever you're doing.' I think dating opportunities are going to be pretty thin on the ground, to be honest.' There's a silver lining I've been looking for,' she whispered, and then she was kissing him as she never kissed him before, and Harry was kissing her back, and it was a blissful oblivion, better than firewhiskey; she was the only real thing in the world, Ginny, the feel of her, one hand on her back, the other in her long sweet-smelling hair...

That's what innocence is, you know. A blissful oblivion of what's coming, of what you'll lose and what you'll gain, and what kind of person you'll grow up to be.

Paradise is not a garden of bliss and changeless perfection where the lions lie down like lambs (what would they eat?) and the angels and cherubim and seraphim rotate in endless idiotic circles, like clockwork, about an equally inane and ludicrous -- however roseate -- unmoved mover. That particular painted fantasy of a realm beyond time and space which Aristotle and the church fathers tried to palm off on us has met, in modern times, only neglect and indifference passing on into oblivion it so richly deserved, while the paradise of which I write and wish to praise is with us yet, the the here and now, the actual, tangible, dogmatically real earth on which we stand.

When we were alive, they told us that when we died we'd go to heaven. And they said that heaven was a place of joy and glory and we would spend eternity in the company of saints and angels praising the Almighty, in a state of bliss. That's what they said. And that's what led some of us to give our lives, and others to spend years in solitary prayer, while all the joy of life was going to waste around us and we never knew. Because the land of the dead isn't a place of reward or a place of punishment, it is a place of nothing. The good come here as well as the wicked, and all of us languish in this gloom forever, with no hope of freedom, or joy, or sleep, or rest, or peace. But now this child has come offering us a way out and I'm going to follow her. Even if it means oblivion, friends, I'll welcome it, because it won't be nothing. We'll be alive again in a thousand blades of grass, and a million leaves; we'll be falling in the raindrops and blowing in the fresh breeze; we'll be glistening in the dew under the stars and the moon out there in the physical world, which is our true home and always was.

And as much as I was dying to know, I also knew that there was bliss in oblivion.

Hers was the perfect love that dwells on the other's happiness, and not on its own. She knew that, though for the time being he would find bliss and oblivion in her arms, he would soon repine in inactivity whilst others fought for that which he held sublime.

It was torture, and it was bliss. Reia had found heaven in the Veil, and it was given to her by the cock of a Duskwalker that was fucking her into oblivion.

Those men and women who follow the path of the Perfect Matrimony finally gain the bliss of entering Nirvana, which is to be in oblivion of the world and men forever...

My little muse is my addiction, and her voice is my drug. If there is a cure to my madness, I don’t want it. I’d rather welcome blissful oblivion.

There’s the silver lining I’ve been looking for,' she whispered, and then she was kissing him as she had never kissed him before, and Harry was kissing her back, and it was blissful oblivion, better than firewhisky; she was the only real thing in the world, Ginny, the feel of her, one hand at her back and one in her long, sweet-smelling hair —

He never asks for endearment, all quiet, Only gazes at me all the time, And he bears with a blissful smile This distressing oblivion of mine.

Nico might have been a bad man, but where he lacked in morals, he more than made up for as a husband. he loved me forever.

You told us once not to be in such a hurry to grow up, but I don't see any way we could have avoided it. There was always someone out there ready to carve away another chunk of our innocence. Maybe because theirs was already gone and they couldn't stand the sight of our ignorant happiness. Because that's what innocence is, you know. A blissful oblivion of what's coming, of what you'll lose and what you'll gain, and what kind of person you'll grow up to be.

Oblivion is bliss. It makes one feel at peace. But not quite. Not quite. My brain is at peace. But my heart isn't. It longs for its other half. The half that comprises the whole. The half that matches its beat. The half that makes it throb. The half that makes it strong to overcome anything. Even oblivion.

Ignorance is not bliss. Oblivion is apathetic. Silence is acquiescence. Consciousness is being aware of yourself, your privilege, and the world around you. To be humane is to be a great human being. Your essence is of no more significance than her, him, they, us, and I. Empathy is I hear you; I understand you. Allie is I stand up with you, and I brave with you. Injustice isn’t one’s problem. It’s our problem. Yes, your life does matter. But right now, our life is a threat.

She was looking at him steadily; he however, found it difficult to look back at her; it was like gazing into a brilliant light. Nice view, he said feebly, pointing toward with window. She ignored this. He could not blame her. I couldn't think what to get you, she said. You didn't have to get me anything. She disregarded this too. I didn't know what would be useful. Nothing too big, because you wouldn't be able to take it with you. He chanced a glance at her. She was not tearful; that was one of the many wonderful things about Ginny, she was rarely weepy. He had sometimes thought that having six brothers must have toughened her up. She took a step closer to him. So then I thought, I'd like you to have something to remember me by, you know, if you meet some Veela when you're off doing whatever you're doing. I think dating opportunities are going to be pretty thin on the ground, to be honest. There's the silver lining I've been looking for, she whispered, and then she was kissing him as she had never kissed him before, and Harry was kissing her back, and it was blissful oblivion better than firewhiskey; she was the only real thing in the world, Ginny, the feel of her, one hand at her back and one in her long, sweet-smelling hair- The door banged open behind them and they jumped apart. Oh, said Ron pointedly. Sorry. Ron! Hermione was just behind him, slight out of breath. There was a strained silence, then Ginny had said in a flat little voice, Well, happy birthday anyway, Harry. Ron's ears were scarlet; Hermione looked nervous. Harry wanted to slam the door in their faces, but it felt as though a cold draft had entered the room when the door opened, and his shining moment had popped like a soap bubble. All the reasons for ending his relationship with Ginny, for staying well away from her, seemed to have slunk inside the room with Ron, and all happy forgetfulness was gone. He looked at Ginny, wanting to say something, though he hardly knew what, but she had turned her back on him. He thought that she might have succumbed, for once, to tears. He could not do anything to comfort her in front of Ron. I'll see you later, he said, and followed the other two out of the bedroom.

Sometimes, drunk, I ruminate on the state of my liver, and think of all the cirrhotics I have watched turn yellow and die. They either bleed out, raving, coughing up and drowning in blood from ruptured esophageal veins, or, in coma, they slip away, slip blissfully away down the yellow-brick ammonia-scented road to oblivion.

I’d like to get this lunch through with so I can go fuck this beautiful, hot, sexy as hell woman into blissful oblivion all afternoon.

They slept again. A small death. A good description. Blissful oblivion. No thought. No feeling. No pain. Everything was nothing. There was comfort in nothing.

However, if they believed the promise of everlasting bliss in the afterlife, they may well have viewed their lives as far more meaningful and worthwhile than modern secular people, who in the long term can expect nothing but complete and meaningless oblivion.

And then she was kissing him as she never had before, and Harry was kissing her back, and it was blissful oblivion, better than firewhiskey; she was the only real thing in the world, Ginny, the feel of her, one hand at her back and one in her long, sweet-smelling hair…

Wallace’s philosophy in The Pale King (TPK 546) is that we can ride out waves of boredom and oblivion into bliss and conscious (re)discovery, like another pioneer. With respect to Wallace’s fiction, as Don DeLillo said, “There is always another reader to regenerate these words” (DeLillo, Legacy 24).

Dazed, he went through his ablutions. Then Ali stepped back, letting the crowd sweep him away as he surrendered to the familiar rhythm and movement of prayer. It was like slipping into oblivion, into bliss, muscle memory and the murmured song of sacred revelation relaxing his tightly wound emotions and offering a brief escape.

Guilt was a thorny carpet Laid on the ground I walked on. Repent and redeem, No vile soul feels a disesteem. Whispers filling my head, Too loud to ignore, Pills upon pills I swallowed them all, For a brief stolen moment, I dove into an ocean of a blissfully quiet oblivion. A hollow elm, A wingless butterfly, A shadow of what was once I.

The longer Levin mowed, the more often he felt those moments of oblivion during which it was no longer his arms that swung the scythe, but the scythe itself that lent motion to his whole body, full of life and conscious of itself, and, as if by magic, without a thought of it, the work got rightly and neatly done on its own. These were the most blissful moments.

I didn't like what that word-'childhood'-conjured up, or rather, I didn't like the way most people use it: that presumption of innocence and starry-eyed wonder. The only good thing about childhood is that no one really remembers it, or rather, that's the only thing about it to like: this forgetting. What else could possibly lie beneath that blissful oblivion but shame: a dark knowledge of that terrible badge of weakness, that inescapable servitude (bearable only thanks to the slow revelation that we could inflict cruelty and evil on the weaker kids), a sickening awareness that just about everything there is to understand was beyond us, made even worse by the lies and inaccuracies that adults feel entitled to spread around, deliberately, or because they don't know any better, about themselves or about the nature of reality?

Dashiel’s jacket slid off his shoulders to land on the floor as he headed straight to the kitchen, fumbled in the cabinet for a glass and poured sake into it until the liquid spilt over the brim onto the counter. His hand shook as he picked up the glass, spilling more of the sake to trickle between his knuckles as he brought it to his lips. A single droplet sloshed onto his tongue. The sweet nectar of oblivion. The harbinger of a fog rolling in to sweep away the pain in favor of blissful stupor— —he hurled the glass across the room. It shattered on impact with the far sturdier window glass, and a hundred tiny shards joined the sake in decorating the floor.

The deeper the worry, the greater the tragedy becomes, the more he loses himself in the enthusiasm of the divine mania. And that is prepared here. To a man like Nietzsche, gripped by an extraordinary suffering, it is a real consolation when somebody says: "All that terrible trouble which burns you now with the tortures of hell, will come to an end; you will go to sleep and not know what is happening to your body." If you have ever experienced such a state of oblivion in your life, where only your body lives, then you know all the bliss of the Dionysian revelation. And Nietzsche had that revelation. Jung, C. G.. Nietzsche's Zarathustra: Notes of the Seminar given in 1934-1939. Two Volumes: 1-2, unabridged (Jung Seminars) (p. 144)

In love, in other words, those phases are present, in its content, which we cited as the fundamental essence of the absolute Spirit: the reconciled return out of another into self. By being the other in which the spirit remains communing with itself, this other can only be spiritual over again, a spiritual personality. The true essence of love consists in giving up the consciousness of oneself, forgetting oneself in another self, yet in this surrender and oblivion having and possessing oneself alone. This reconciliation of the spirit with itself and the completion of itself to a totality is the Absolute, yet not, as may be supposed, in the sense that the Absolute as a purely singular and therefore finite subject coincides with itself in another finite subject; on the contrary, the content of the subjectivity which reconciles itself with itself in another is here the Absolute itself: the Spirit which only in another spirit is the knowing and willing of itself as the Absolute and has the satisfaction of this knowledge. In love, on the contrary, the spirit’s opposite is not nature but itself a spiritual consciousness, another person, and the spirit is therefore realized for itself in what it itself owns, in its very own element. So in this affirmative satisfaction and blissful reality at rest in itself, love is the ideal but purely spiritual beauty which on account of its inwardness can also be expressed only in and as the deep feeling of the heart. For the spirit which is present to itself and immediately sure of itself in [another] spirit, and therefore has the spiritual itself as the material and ground of its existence, is in itself, is depth of feeling, and, more precisely, is the spiritual depth of love. (α) God is love and therefore his deepest essence too is to be apprehended and represented in this form adequate to art in Christ. But Christ is divine love; as its object, what is manifest is on the one hand God himself in his invisible essence, and, on the other, mankind which is to be redeemed; and thus what then comes into appearance in Christ is less the absorption of one person in another limited person than the Idea of love in its universality, the Absolute, the spirit of truth in the element and form of feeling. With this universality of love’s object, love’s expression is also universalized, with the result that the subjective concentration of heart and soul does not become the chief thing in that expression – just as, even in the case of the Greeks, what is emphasized, although in a totally different context, in Venus Urania[8] and the old Titanic deity, Eros, is the universal Idea and not the subjective element, i.e. individual shape and feeling. Only when Christ is conceived in the portrayals of romantic art as more than an individual subject, immersed in himself, does the expression of love become conspicuous in the form of subjective deep feeling, always elevated and borne, however, by the universality of its content.

Just because you’re living in blissful oblivion doesn’t mean you’re not responsible

It was within this circle of debauchery, we effectuated our erotic dance, answering only to the call of the wild. When our prurient desires took hold, we exchanged partners until we had our fill of proliferated succor. As I rode their ferocities with tumultuous savagery, fanatical flashes of electrifying potencies crashed within me, launching my deliverance over and above my partner’s head. The smashing waves of their burgeoning cogency coated my inner walls, stuffing my core to overflowing capacity. Before I could attain equilibrium, their un-relinquishing appetites had triggered another round of firing deposits - Tad’s unrelenting kisses brought on my second cumming while their stiffness continued to rock me into oblivion. Squirts of their molten love burst into the hub of my fervent mortality as I surrendered to this heavenly joyance with blissful contentment. While the helmsman and the captain took turns lapping up the brimming remnants they had lodged within my willing burrow, I swathed their leaking appendages with ardent gusto before sharing our fill in a three-way kiss. When I finally looked over at our adjoining trio, they too were apportioning their feed, as we had a moment ago. At last, we plunged into the cooling aqua, cleansing all traces of our man-to-man love before heading back whence we came.

I’ll only push you to your limit, and then I’ll nudge you the rest of the way into blissful oblivion.

The sobs tearing through her were catharsis. Painful and messy, shredding her heart—and leaving a blissful sort of peace in their wake. But not emptiness. She clung to the soft touches and soothing murmurs, wrapped herself in borrowed strength, and floated toward oblivion secure in the knowledge that she wasn't alone.

For some reason she found herself thinking of poor Reimi, now stuck in her cryogenic pod. As horrible as it sounded, there was always the chance that being frozen would be a blissful experience for her—like waking up from the longest, most refreshing nap of her life. Maybe she would emerge from her pod feeling younger and stronger than she ever had before. Her skin all taut and dewy. Her eyes cleared by months of sleep. Maybe being frozen was like a rejuvenation—or a much-needed escape into oblivion. Or maybe it was like waking up in a coffin, Park thought, bleakly. Not quite dead, but wishing that you were. Maybe Reimi was still awake when the freezing began, cognizant enough to feel the agony of her arteries shriveling, her body deflating inch by painful inch. Organs locking up, tissue gluing itself to tissue, the blood turning syrupy and slow with cryoprotectants. Maybe being frozen was its own kind of trauma. The latter seemed more likely, didn’t it? Space supported her line of thinking. Space was all about entropy.

honest.” “There’s the silver lining I’ve been looking for,” she whispered, and then she was kissing him as she had never kissed him before, and Harry was kissing her back, and it was blissful oblivion, better than firewhisky; she was the only real thing in the world, Ginny, the feel of her, one hand at her back and one in her long, sweet-smelling hair — The door banged open behind them and they jumped apart.

My little muse is my addiction, and her voice is my drug. If there is a cure to my madness, I don't want it. I'd rather welcome blissful oblivion.

From a strictly realistic perspective, should we bet on infinite life and endless consequences to our actions? Pascal would argue that our answer must be a resounding „Yes!“ We might as well assume that there will be a future continuity of our personal consciousness, however changed, however disembodied or re-embodied, however connected or disconnected we remain to the „self“ we experience in this life. If we make that bet on our own future lives, then we will prepare in whatever way we can to assure that we continue in a good way, in a better embodiment and environment. We will become truly responsible for our thoughts and our acts. Even though we may not remember the previous-life self who made those preparations, we certainly will want to enjoy the results. If our bet is misplaced, and our preparations have no effect because we actually do enter oblivion at death, we will simply not exist to regret having made them. But if we wrongly bet on noncontinuity and therefore do not prepare for the future and have to face it unprepared, then we may suffer seriously in our next existence, and we will very much regret our decision. Even if we don‘t remember making it, don‘t know why we are suffering, don‘t know how to fault ourselves for being so unconscious in our previous life, we will still suffer and regret. Pascal‘s wager is therefore a very safe bet – it has a clear-cut positive outcome. Whether our personal life is really terminal at death or in fact infinite in continuity, if we bet, like Pascal, on the existence of our life after death, in whatever form, we will be in the best possible position, however things turn out. (pp. 7-8, The Nature of Reality)

Worship is taking time from the momentum of our lives to stop and stand before the Face of God for a few minutes. The prostrations in the ritual prayer that are the regular practice of the Islamic tradition, and which Sufis also do, include four to eight cycles of standing, bowing, and prostrating. At most, the ritual prayer takes between five and ten minutes. It‘s a deep and mindful encounter with the Infinite Face of God, not performing a ritual with rote recitations. In fact, the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, said, „If your ritual prayer is not done with presence, it‘s not worship.“ Presence is absolutely essential to the ritual prayer. The whole normative practice of Islam, its basic practices and rituals, are a spiritual training system when properly understood […] One of our friends, a great Sufi teacher, recently said, „Everything is in the prostration.“ When our foreheads touch the ground we enter into that Divine Oblivion. It is oblivion, in the sense that we are so present with the Divine that everything else just disappears. We‘re completely there in the consciousness of the Divine, forehead to the ground, for that moment. It‘s a kind of bliss. (p. 103)

I felt desperate for a few hours of blissful oblivion. I couldn’t face the thoughts and possibilities that were ricocheting around my head.

She was in search of something and he was in search of something, enraged, pulling faces, burrowing into each other's breasts they searched, and their hugging and heaving bodies brought them no oblivion but reminded them of their duty to search, the way dogs scratch desperately in the earth they scratched at each other and in helpless disappointment, still pursuing final bliss, now and again swept their tongues over each other's faces. Only weariness quietened them and made them grateful to each other.

My Aphrodisiac" Now that you are gone, I want to tell you, you are wrong. About everything. Consider perspective as a case in point. You loved to inform me that far-away things appear smaller. I am here to tell you that distant things grow bigger. Missing objects are the largest of all. Their shadows can loom above us and darken an entire universe. In a single instant, they build cities of memory without a misplaced word. I know this for a fact. At a certain point in a life, an absence begins to grow. Your shadow, for example, is now drifting across my sheets and ceilings. Just the other night, you were standing behind me in the mirror and in the department store windows and on the subway and at Arabica’s coffee shop, and when I stared at my eyes to apply mascara, I glimpsed you in the dark glow of my pupils. In desperation, I called to a man walking beneath my window on a summer night, and he became you, answering my call with a grin, opening the door to my apartment with his sleeves rolled up to your elbows, your cold smoker’s fingers. Instantly I caught a whiff of his fragrance, inhaled him as deeply as a summer rose. Such a scent! Call it bliss, eternity, oblivion, seventh heaven, the names of a thousand and one perfumes, the scent of a man in heat. Oh yes, men are in heat, everywhere. Now that you are gone. Nin Andrews, The Prose Poem: An International Journal (Vol. 8, 1999)

All year long you are close to me And, like formerly, happy and young! Aren't you tortured already By the traumatized strings' dark song? Those now only lightly moan That once, taut, loudly rang And aimlessly they are torn By my dry, waxen hand. Little is necessary to make happy One who is tender and loving yet, The young forehead is not touched yet By jealousy, rage or regret. He is quiet, does not ask to be tender, Only stares and stares at me And with blissful smile does he bear My oblivion's dreadful insanity.

she was kissing him as she had never kissed him before, and Harry was kissing her back, and it was blissful oblivion, better than firewhisky;

He thought, I know what my idea of heaven would be, if by heaven we mean a place of bliss in which to pass eternity: a sanctuary where one might chain-smoke without impairment of breathing, destruction of the lungs, or damage to the heart, light each fresh cigarette from the glowing butt of its predecessor, and drink ice-free but hundred-proof chilled vodka laced with two drops of angostura and a gill of newly opened Perrier endlessly, with increasing euphoria, until a peak of joy and ease was reached but without any subsequent nausea or pain or dehydration or oblivion…

Change must come. Love was supposed to develop from blissful oblivion to security. A deep rooted knowledge that when you saw past the bliss, and you were faced with reality, that you still chose each other.

Like many people, I fear the pain and suffering that the dying often go through. It feels tragic to contemplate leaving behind my loved ones, special places, personal things, travel, work, and all the rich experiences of life in a body on Earth. But I have no fear concerning the kinds of mental experiences I might have during or after my death. After all, even if the NDE is an illusion – a temporary state of wonder and bliss followed by oblivion – it suggests that death will be a gloriously transcendent adventure.

swallowed. “I don’t want to do this if there are going to be other women, Nico. I can’t.” He watched me for two tense seconds. “You’re enough for me.” My heart grew. I suddenly realized that even if I’d heard those words from him at the beginning, I wouldn’t have believed them. However, now an unexplainable feeling told me his words rang true. He pressed his face between my legs and I burned with bliss.