Softly
8
Now you can live long!

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Do not stop drinking and gobbling up food—and your body will never be light.

Do not stop fretting and worrying—and your spirit will never be pure.

Do not stop craving for sounds and sights—and your heart will never be calm.

 

No calm in your heart—and your spirit will never be numinous.

No numen in your spirit—and the Tao cannot work its wonders.

Success is not in homage to the stars or worship of the Dipper.

That rather makes you suffer and exhausts your body.

Success is in deepening the spirit powers of your heart.

There is no effort needed—the Tao of immortality is there!

Now you can live long!



(Source: modernshxmxn, via modernshxmxn)


23 "what I defend above all is the possibility and the necessity of the critical intellectual, who is firstly critical of the intellectual doxa secreted by the doxosophers. there is no genuine democracy without genuine opposing critical powers. the intellectual is one of those, of the first magnitude. that is why I think that the work of demolishing the critical intellectual, living or dead - marx, nietzsche, sartre, foucault, and some others who are grouped together under the label pansee 68- is as dangerous as the demolition of the public interest and that it is part of the same process of restoration.
of course I would prefer it if intellectuals had all, and always, lived up to the immense historical responsibility they bear and if they had always invested in their actions not only their moral authority but also their intellectual competence- like, to cite just one example, pierre vidal-naquet, who has engaged all his mastery of historical method in a critique of the abuses of history. having said that, in the words of karl kraus, ‘between two evils, I refuse to choose the lesser.’ whole I have little indulgence for ‘irresponsible’ intellectuals, I have even less respect for the ‘intellectuals’ of the political-administrative establishment, polymorphous polygraphs who polish their annual essays between two meetings of boards of directors, three publishers’ parties and miscellaneous television appearances"

— bourdieu, acts of resistance (via doxasavar)

(via e-erik)

1006 "All things considered, what we look for in other people is perhaps the same gentle deterritorialization we look for in travel. The temptation of exile in the desire of another and of journey across that desire come to be substituted for one’s own desire and for discovery. Often looks and amorous gestures already have the distance of exile, language expatriates itself into words which are afraid to mean, the body is like a hologram, gentle on the eye and soft to the touch, and can thus easily be striated in all directions by desire like an aerial space. We move circumspectly within our emotions, passing from one to another, on a mental planet made up of convolutions. And we bring back the same transparent memories from our excesses and passions as we do from our travels."

— Jean Baudrillard 

(Source: sirilaf, via duoyen)

4 "At bottom there is no greater pleasure than that of analysing one’s own pain, no more sensual pleasure than the liquid, sickly meanderings of feelings as they crumble and rot: light steps in the uncertain shadows, so gentle on the ear we do not even turn to find out whose they are; vague, distant songs, whose words we do not try to catch but are lulled all the more by not knowing what they say or whence they come; the tenuous secrets of pale waters, filling the night with fragile distances; and, inaudible from here, somnolent in the warm torpor of the afternoon where summer slides into autumn, the rattle of far-off carts, returning from where and carrying what joys inside them? The flowers in the garden died and, withered, become different flowers, older, nobler, more in keeping in their dead yellows with mystery, silence and abandon. The watersnakes that surface in the pools have their reasons for their dreams. Is that the distant croaking of frogs? Ah the dead fields of my self! The rustic peace known only in dreams! My futile life like that of a vagabond who does not work but sleeps by the roadside with the smell of the fields seeping like mist into his soul, lulled by a cool, translucent sound, deep and rich with the understanding the nothing connects with nothing, a nocturnal, unknown, weary nomad beneath the cold compassion of the stars.

I follow the path of my dreams, making of the images steps up to other images; opening out like a fan the chance metaphors to be found in the great paintings of my inner visions; I divest myself of life and lay it to one side like a suit that’s grown too tight. I hide amongst trees far from the roads. I lose myself. For light fleeting moments I manage to forget the taste of life, to leave […] life and noise behind and die, feelings first, consciously, absurdly, like an empire of anguished ruins, a grand entrance amidst flags and victorious drums into a vast final city where I will weep for nothing, want nothing and not even ask to be myself."

— 

The Book of Disquiet, Fernando Pessoa

The greatest book I’ve ever been given. 

(via scicchitano)

Anne Sexton, “Admonitions to a Special Person”
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