If to truth I am a timid friend, I fear that I shall not live on amongst those who shall call this age ancient.
—Dante Alighieri, Paradiso XVII: 118-120
Paradiso XII
He is right low down amongst the fools who maketh affirmation or negation without distinction between case and case.
—Dante Alighieri, Paradiso XII
—Dante Alighieri, Paradiso XII
The Brothers Karamazov
Lise looked at him joyfully. "Alyosha," she murmured again, "look at the door. Isn't mamma listening?"
"Very well, Lise, I'll look; but wouldn't it be better not to look? Why suspect your mother of such meanness?"
"What meanness? As for her spying on her daughter, it's her right, it's not meanness!" cried Lise, firing up. "You may be sure, Alexey Fyodorovitch, that when I am a mother, if I have a daughter like myself I shall certainly spy on her!"
"Really, Lise? That's not right."
"Oh, my goodness! What has meanness to do with it? If she were listening to some ordinary worldly conversation, it would be meanness, but when her own daughter is shut up with a young man ... Listen, Alyosha, do you know I shall spy upon you as soon as we are married, and let me tell you I shall open all your letters and read them, so you may as well be prepared."
"Yes, of course, if so—" muttered Alyosha, "only it's not right."
"Ah, how contemptuous! Alyosha, dear, we won't quarrel the very first day. I'd better tell you the whole truth. Of course, it's very wrong to spy on people, and, of course, I am not right and you are, only I shall spy on you all the same."
"Do, then; you won't find out anything," laughed Alyosha.
"And Alyosha, will you give in to me? We must decide that too."
"I shall be delighted to, Lise, and certain to, only not in the most important things. Even if you don't agree with me, I shall do my duty in the most important things."
"That's right; but let me tell you I am ready to give in to you not only in the most important matters, but in everything. And I am ready to vow to do so now—in everything, and for all my life!" cried Lise fervently, "and I'll do it gladly, gladly! What's more, I'll swear never to spy on you, never once, never to read one of your letters. For you are right and I am not. And though I shall be awfully tempted to spy, I know that I won't do it since you consider it dishonourable. You are my conscience now....
—Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, translated by Constance Garnett, p 201-202.
"Very well, Lise, I'll look; but wouldn't it be better not to look? Why suspect your mother of such meanness?"
"What meanness? As for her spying on her daughter, it's her right, it's not meanness!" cried Lise, firing up. "You may be sure, Alexey Fyodorovitch, that when I am a mother, if I have a daughter like myself I shall certainly spy on her!"
"Really, Lise? That's not right."
"Oh, my goodness! What has meanness to do with it? If she were listening to some ordinary worldly conversation, it would be meanness, but when her own daughter is shut up with a young man ... Listen, Alyosha, do you know I shall spy upon you as soon as we are married, and let me tell you I shall open all your letters and read them, so you may as well be prepared."
"Yes, of course, if so—" muttered Alyosha, "only it's not right."
"Ah, how contemptuous! Alyosha, dear, we won't quarrel the very first day. I'd better tell you the whole truth. Of course, it's very wrong to spy on people, and, of course, I am not right and you are, only I shall spy on you all the same."
"Do, then; you won't find out anything," laughed Alyosha.
"And Alyosha, will you give in to me? We must decide that too."
"I shall be delighted to, Lise, and certain to, only not in the most important things. Even if you don't agree with me, I shall do my duty in the most important things."
"That's right; but let me tell you I am ready to give in to you not only in the most important matters, but in everything. And I am ready to vow to do so now—in everything, and for all my life!" cried Lise fervently, "and I'll do it gladly, gladly! What's more, I'll swear never to spy on you, never once, never to read one of your letters. For you are right and I am not. And though I shall be awfully tempted to spy, I know that I won't do it since you consider it dishonourable. You are my conscience now....
—Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, translated by Constance Garnett, p 201-202.
A. K. Dewdney
To some people is given the ability to shrug off the illusion of the bowl [the celestial sphere]. My son is such a one. Sometimes when he looks up, he sees not the bowl, but into the depths of space. The perception is terrifying beyond measure.
—A. K. Dewdney, A Mathematical Mystery Tour, p 104.
—A. K. Dewdney, A Mathematical Mystery Tour, p 104.
The Voyage of the Dawn Treader
On the next page she came to a spell "for the refreshment of the spirit". The pictures were fewer here but very beautiful. And what Lucy found herself reading was more like a story than a spell. It went on for three pages and before she had read to the bottom of the page she had forgotten that she was reading at all. She was living in the story as if it were real, and all the pictures were real too.
When she had got to the third page and come to the end, she said, "That is the loveliest story I've ever read or ever shall read in my whole life. Oh, I wish I could have gone on reading it for ten years. At least I'll read it over again."
But here part of the magic of the Book came into play. You couldn't turn back. The right-hand pages, the ones ahead, could be turned; the left-hand pages could not.
"Oh, what a shame!" said Lucy. "I did so want to read it again. Well, at least I must remember it. Let's see ... it was about ... about ... oh dear, it's all fading away again.... And even this last page is going blank. This is a very queer book. How can I have forgotten? It was about a cup and a sword and a tree and a green hill, I know that much. But I can't remember and what shall I do?"
Ever since that day what Lucy means by a good story is a story which reminds her of the forgotten story in the Magician's Book.
...
"Shall I ever be able to read that story again; the one I couldn't remember? Will you tell it to me, Aslan? Oh do, do, do."
"Indeed, yes, I will tell it to you for years and years. But now, come. We must meet the master of this house."
— C.S. Lewis, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader
When she had got to the third page and come to the end, she said, "That is the loveliest story I've ever read or ever shall read in my whole life. Oh, I wish I could have gone on reading it for ten years. At least I'll read it over again."
But here part of the magic of the Book came into play. You couldn't turn back. The right-hand pages, the ones ahead, could be turned; the left-hand pages could not.
"Oh, what a shame!" said Lucy. "I did so want to read it again. Well, at least I must remember it. Let's see ... it was about ... about ... oh dear, it's all fading away again.... And even this last page is going blank. This is a very queer book. How can I have forgotten? It was about a cup and a sword and a tree and a green hill, I know that much. But I can't remember and what shall I do?"
Ever since that day what Lucy means by a good story is a story which reminds her of the forgotten story in the Magician's Book.
...
"Shall I ever be able to read that story again; the one I couldn't remember? Will you tell it to me, Aslan? Oh do, do, do."
"Indeed, yes, I will tell it to you for years and years. But now, come. We must meet the master of this house."
— C.S. Lewis, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader
Richard Dawkins
The God of the Old Testament is arguably the most unpleasant character in all fiction: jealous and proud of it; a petty, unjust, unforgiving control-freak; a vindictive, bloodthirsty ethnic cleanser; a misogynistic, homophobic, racist, infanticidal, genocidal, filicidal, pestilential, megalomaniacal, sadomasochistic, capriciously malevolent bully.
—Richard Dawkins
—Richard Dawkins
The Soul of Man under Socialism
What is there behind the leading article but prejudice, stupidity, cant, and twaddle?
—Oscar Wilde, The Soul of Man under Socialism, The Complete Works of Oscar Wilde p 1094.
—Oscar Wilde, The Soul of Man under Socialism, The Complete Works of Oscar Wilde p 1094.
The Picture of Dorian Gray
The suspense became unbearable. Time seemed to him to be crawling with feet of lead, while he by monstrous winds was being swept towards the jagged edge of some black cleft of precipice. He knew what was waiting for him there; saw it, indeed, and, shuddering, crushed with dank hands his burning lids as though he would have robbed the very brain of sight and driven the eyeballs back into their cave. It was useless. The brain had its own food on which it battened, and the imagination, made grotesque by terror, twisted and distorted as a living thing by pain, danced like some foul puppet on a stand and grinned through moving masks. Then, suddenly, time stopped for him. Yes: that blind, slow-breathing thing crawled no more, and horrible thoughts, time being dead, raced nimbly on in front, and dragged a hideous future from its grave, and showed it to him. He stared at it. Its very horror made him stone.
—Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray, c 14 p 128.
—Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray, c 14 p 128.
Facebook has brought to the forefront of my social life a necessity I seldom considered before selling my soul and signing up two months ago: friend quantity. Sure, we knew that the cool girls reigned in high school, but never before has such an unquestionably accurate popularity meter indicated down to the last individual your worth as a human being (or, at least the precise number of people who thought you were worth the two seconds it takes to 'friend' someone).... I occasionally scold myself for buying into the superficiality of online social networking. But to delete my profile would be to admit defeat, and what would my friends—real and otherwise—think if I gave in? Still, nothing can belie the masochism of logging in daily. A few mouse clicks reveal photos of parties to which I was not invited and wall-to-wall conversations regarding outings that no one bothered to tell me about. Somehow, though, addicted and dead set on avoiding crippling uncoolness, I struggle on with Gatsby-like tenacity. A thousand "friends" is the new American Dream.
—Jennifer DeBerardinis, Not Clicking With the Facebook Crowd. The Washington Post, Monday, July 30, 2007; Page A15
—Jennifer DeBerardinis, Not Clicking With the Facebook Crowd. The Washington Post, Monday, July 30, 2007; Page A15
George MacDonald
She had in the storehouse of her heart a whole harvest of agonies, reaped from the dun fields of the night.
Although the body she now showed might grow up straight and well-shaped and comely to behold, the new body that was growing inside of it, and would come out of it when she died, would be ugly, and crooked this way and that, like an aged hawthorn that has lived hundreds of years exposed upon all sides to salt sea-winds.
Something had to be done, else she would be one of those who kneel to their own shadows till feet grow on their knees; then go down on their hands till their hands grow into feet; then lay their faces on the ground till they grow into snouts; until at last they are a hideous sort of lizards.... And so they run about forever looking for their own shadows, that they may worship them, and miserable because they cannot find them, being themselves too near the ground to have any shadows; and what becomes of them at last there is but one who knows.
Sometimes she would be seized with such delight of heart that she would spread out her arms to the wind, and go rushing up the hill till her breath left her, when she would tumble down in the heather, and lie there till it came back again.
—George MacDonald, The Lost Princess: A Double Story
Although the body she now showed might grow up straight and well-shaped and comely to behold, the new body that was growing inside of it, and would come out of it when she died, would be ugly, and crooked this way and that, like an aged hawthorn that has lived hundreds of years exposed upon all sides to salt sea-winds.
Something had to be done, else she would be one of those who kneel to their own shadows till feet grow on their knees; then go down on their hands till their hands grow into feet; then lay their faces on the ground till they grow into snouts; until at last they are a hideous sort of lizards.... And so they run about forever looking for their own shadows, that they may worship them, and miserable because they cannot find them, being themselves too near the ground to have any shadows; and what becomes of them at last there is but one who knows.
Sometimes she would be seized with such delight of heart that she would spread out her arms to the wind, and go rushing up the hill till her breath left her, when she would tumble down in the heather, and lie there till it came back again.
—George MacDonald, The Lost Princess: A Double Story
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