And the craters remain from the last time you came
And seemingly our only crime was wrong place, wrong time
And that’s why we died
Decisions were made by some corporate ingrates
Put a price on all of our lives, happens all the time
And that’s why we died
And that’s why we died
And that’s why we died
And that’s why we died
And that’s why we died
And that’s why we died
non viviamo nel mondo
Non viviamo nel mondo.
Viviamo nel palinsesto.Una cosa alla volta.
and all the lives we ever lived
And all the lives we ever lived
And all the lives to be,
Are full of trees and changing leaves
tekeli-li
C’è qualcuno di voi in grado di dirmi con certezza se, ancora oggi
Nell’abisso sotterraneo scavato dal fiume fra le viscere della terra, dove luce e uomo non sono mai penetrati
Sopravvivano o meno dele creature sconosciute venute dallo spazio in epoche antiche?
Perché tuttora quel folle verso risuona costantemente nella mia mente.
Tekeli-li!
Tekeli-li!
non cedono nel vuoto
Ho bisogno di osservare un insieme di parole che di solito si presentano in un certo ordine per cantare una certa adunata, e provare se, scambiando l’ordine, giocando con la punteggiatura, quell’insieme di parole diventa qualcos’altro, qualcosa che non deve insegnare niente, che non deve convincerti a cambiare comportamento, a seguire un codice. Sento che c’è una forza liberatrice nel ricomporre l’ordine di certe parole per scoprire dove cedono. Non cedono nel vuoto, anche se cedendo fanno vedere il vuoto.
this is what I am
It was true; he was for the most part happy; he had his wife; he had his children; he had promised in six weeks’ time to talk ‘some nonsense’ to the young men of Cardiff about Locke, Hume, Berkeley, and the causes of the French Revolution. But this and his pleasure in it, in the phrases he made, in the ardour of youth, in his wife’s beauty, in the tributes that reached him from Swansea, Cardiff, Exeter, Southampton, Kidderminster, Oxford, Cambridge — all had to be deprecated and concealed under the phrase ‘talking nonsense,’ because, in effect, he had not done the thing he might have done. It was a disguise; it was the refuge of a man afraid to own his own feelings, who could not say, This is what I like — this is what I am; and rather pitable and distasteful to William Bankes and Lily Briscoe, who wondered why such concealments should be necessary; why he needed always praise; why so brave a man in thought should be so timid in life; how strangely he was venerable and laughable at one and at the same time.
the very stone
It is permissible even for a dying hero to think before he dies how men will speak of him hereafter. His fame lasts perhaps two thousand years. And what are two thousand years? (asked Mr Ramsay ironically, staring at the hedge). What, indeed, if you look from a mountain-top down the long wastes of the ages? The very stone one kicks with one’s boot will outlast Shakespeare.
the Rest
Analytic philosophy simply cannot help thinking of itself as just philosophy as such — not unlike the way in which, as Charles Mills underlined, whites simply cannot help thinking of themselves as just humanity as such. There is, analytic philosophers like to say, only ‘good’ and ‘bad’ philosophy — one is left to draw the inference by oneself the ‘good’ philosophy is the kind that analytic philosophers approve of.
[…]
As a result of this (lack of) self-conception, analytic philosophy importantly lacks a notion of the difference between itself and ‘Western philosophy’.
[…]
It ought to be obvious that ‘the West’ is not a geographical designation, but the name of a political project. The concept of ‘the West’ which this project underwrites is of much more recent origin than is often thought, gaining currency only in the closing decades of the nineteenth century. Its function was to legitimate the imperialist intensification of the project of global domination through capital, by which whites had gained political and economic ascendancy over the entire globe, begun in the wake of Columbus’s ‘discovery’ of the Carribean in 1492. The idea of the ‘West’ implies an ‘other’: as the Jamaican-born cultural theorist Stuart Hall put it, ‘the Rest’.
to pursue truth
‘Damn you,’ he said. But what had she said? Simply that it might be fine to-morrow. So it might.
Not with the barometer falling and the wind due west.
To pursue truth with such astonishing lack of consideration for other people’s feelings, to rend the thin veils of civilisation so wantonly, so brutally, was to her so horrible an outrage of human decency that, without replying, dazed and blinded, she bent her head as if to let the pelt of jagged hail, the drench of dirty water, bespatter her unrebuked. There was nothing to be said.
life is
Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged; life is a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end.