There, confessiamocelo (and the disease is the great confessional) childhood disease in a frank, you say things, you spit the truth that the decoration wary of health keeps hidden. Compassion, for example, we can do without. Illusion of a world that consists of echo every groan, as human beings bound together by common needs and fears that, if you pull one's wrist, dragging the other, where, as strange are your experiences others have also lived where, as you push in your mind, someone was there before you - is all an illusion.
We know our soul, let alone the souls of others. Humans do not go hand in hand the whole way. There is a virgin forest in each; a snowy field where also the imprint of a bird is unknown. Here we proceed on their own, and we love it. Always be pitied, to be accompanied at all times, be included would be intolerable.
But in the world of healthy, polite fiction to be maintained, and the effort renewed - to communicate, to civilise, to share, to cultivate and educate the savage wilderness, to work together on the day and have a good time in the evening. In the world of this sick hoax stops. [...] No more soldiers in the army of the upright and become deserters. They march into battle. We we float with the sticks in the stream, mixed with dead leaves of the lawn, irresponsible and disinterested and able, perhaps for the first time in years, to look around, to look at - look, for example, the sky.
from the disease , Virginia Woolf
We know our soul, let alone the souls of others. Humans do not go hand in hand the whole way. There is a virgin forest in each; a snowy field where also the imprint of a bird is unknown. Here we proceed on their own, and we love it. Always be pitied, to be accompanied at all times, be included would be intolerable.
But in the world of healthy, polite fiction to be maintained, and the effort renewed - to communicate, to civilise, to share, to cultivate and educate the savage wilderness, to work together on the day and have a good time in the evening. In the world of this sick hoax stops. [...] No more soldiers in the army of the upright and become deserters. They march into battle. We we float with the sticks in the stream, mixed with dead leaves of the lawn, irresponsible and disinterested and able, perhaps for the first time in years, to look around, to look at - look, for example, the sky.
from the disease , Virginia Woolf
0 comments:
Post a Comment