Wingsfortheirsmiles
somisareg-sanatalp:

The Master of the Rebel Angels, (ca. 1340)

somisareg-sanatalp:

The Master of the Rebel Angels, (ca. 1340)

(via gavrilo-il-principe)

The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to such a pass that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love, and in order to occupy and distract himself without love he gives way to passions and coarse pleasures, and sinks to bestiality in his vices, all from continual lying to other men and to himself. The man who lies to himself can be more easily offended than anyone. You know it is sometimes very pleasant to take offence, isn’t it? A man may know that nobody has insulted him, but that he has invented the insult for himself, has lied and exaggerated to make it picturesque, has caught at a word and made a mountain out of a molehill — he knows that himself, yet he will be the first to take offence, and will revel in his resentment till he feels great pleasure in it, and so pass to genuine vindictiveness.
Fyodor Dostoevsky, from The Brothers Karamazov (via violentwavesofemotion)

Paul Joseph Jamin

Paul Joseph Jamin

(Source: fuoco-fluido, via c0lmillos)

I know nothing of a “super-reality.” Reality contains everything I can know, for everything that acts upon me is real and actual. If it does not act upon me, then I notice nothing and can, therefore, know nothing about it.

Hence I can make statements only about real things, but not about things that are unreal, or surreal, or subreal. Unless, of course, it should occur to someone to limit the concept of reality in such a way that the attribute “real” applied only to a particular segment of the world’s reality.

This restriction to the so-called material or concrete reality of objects perceived by the senses is a product of a particular way of thinking-the thinking that underlies “sound common sense” and our ordinary use of language.

It operates on the celebrated principle “Nihil est in intellectu quod non antea fuerit in sensu,” regardless of the fact that there are very many things in the mind which did not derive from the data of the senses.

According to this view, everything is “real” which comes, or seems to come, directly or indirectly from the world revealed by the senses. This limited picture of the world is a reflection of the one-sidedness of Western man.

Carl Jung; “The Real and the Surreal” (1933). In CW 8: The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche. P.745 (via peterspear)

(Source: bastard666, via crudenesssober)

En algún apartado rincón de universo centelleante, desparramado en innumerables sistemas solares, hubo una vez un astro en que animales inteligentes inventaron el conocimiento. Fue el minuto más altanero y falaz de la Historia Universal: pero, a fin de cuentas, sólo un minuto. Tras breves respiraciones de la naturaleza el astro se heló y los animales inteligentes hubieron de perecer. Alguien podría inventar una fábula semejante pero, con todo, no habría ilustrado suficientemente cuán lastimoso, cuán sombrío y caduco, cuán estéril y arbitrario es el estado en el que se presenta el intelecto humano dentro de la naturaleza. Hubo eternidades en las que no existía; cuando de nuevo se acabe todo para él no habrá sucedido nada, puesto que para ese intelecto no hay ninguna misión ulterior que conduzca más allá de la vida humana. No es sino humano, y solamente su poseedor y creador lo toma tan patéticamente como si en él girasen los goznes del mundo.
F. W. Nietzsche, «Sobre verdad y mentira en un sentido extramoral». (via procrastinadorcronico)

(Source: grey-bite, via asilentscreamingmoon)

Asumir un pesimismo radical, profundo, completo, omnipresente, absoluto, lúcido; hasta el punto de que acabe dando lugar a una especie de optimismo, a una especie de nihilismo optimista que sólo se puede llamar liberación. No hay otra salida. No hay esperanza, jamás la habrá. No se puede aspirar más que a la liberación; la absoluta liberación del que ya no tiene nada que perder. (La absoluta liberación del condenado a muerte.)
A partir de ese momento, es posible empezar a comprender el mundo.
Roger Wolfe. (via entre-el-dolor-y-la-nada)

(Source: sycalaelen, via imaginecrenton)

Men fear thought as they fear nothing else on earth — more than ruin, more even than death. Thought is subversive and revolutionary, destructive and terrible, thought is merciless to privilege, established institutions, and comfortable habits; thought is anarchic and lawless, indifferent to authority, careless of the well-tried wisdom of the ages. Thought looks into the pit of hell and is not afraid … Thought is great and swift and free, the light of the world, and the chief glory of man.
Bertrand Russell, Why Men Fight (via quotes-shape-us)

(via fuckyeahexistentialism)

(Source: calantheandthenightingale, via pakitanavajas)

Have you not heard of that madman who lit a lantern in the bright morning hours, ran to the market place, and cried incessantly: “I seek God! I seek God!” — As many of those who did not believe in God were standing around just then, he provoked much laughter. Has he got lost? asked one. Did he lose his way like a child? asked another. Or is he hiding? Is he afraid of us? Has he gone on a voyage? emigrated? — Thus they yelled and laughed.

The madman jumped into their midst and pierced them with his eyes. “Whither is God?” he cried; “I will tell you. We have killed him — you and I. All of us are his murderers. But how did we do this? How could we drink up the sea? Who gave us the sponge to wipe away the entire horizon? What were we doing when we unchained this earth from its sun? Whither is it moving now? Whither are we moving? Away from all suns? Are we not plunging continually? Backward, sideward, forward, in all directions? Is there still any up or down? Are we not straying, as through an infinite nothing? Do we not feel the breath of empty space? Has it not become colder? Is not night continually closing in on us? Do we not need to light lanterns in the morning? Do we hear nothing as yet of the noise of the gravediggers who are burying God? Do we smell nothing as yet of the divine decomposition? Gods, too, decompose. God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him.

"How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives: who will wipe this blood off us? What water is there for us to clean ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it? There has never been a greater deed; and whoever is born after us — for the sake of this deed he will belong to a higher history than all history hitherto."

Here the madman fell silent and looked again at his listeners; and they, too, were silent and stared at him in astonishment. At last he threw his lantern on the ground, and it broke into pieces and went out. “I have come too early,” he said then; “my time is not yet. This tremendous event is still on its way, still wandering; it has not yet reached the ears of men. Lightning and thunder require time; the light of the stars requires time; deeds, though done, still require time to be seen and heard. This deed is still more distant from them than most distant stars — and yet they have done it themselves.

It has been related further that on the same day the madman forced his way into several churches and there struck up his requiem aeternam deo. Led out and called to account, he is said always to have replied nothing but: “What after all are these churches now if they are not the tombs and sepulchers of God?

Parable of the Madman, Friedrich Nietzsche (1882)

(Source: whenyouarenothing)


(via shamefullyinspired)

I knew, sitting there, that I might be a real nihilist, that it wasn’t always just a hip pose. That I drifted and quit because nothing meant anything, no one choice was really better. That I was, in a way, too free, or that this kind of freedom wasn’t actually real — I was free to choose ‘whatever’ because it didn’t really matter. But that this, too, was because of something I chose — I had somehow chosen to have nothing matter. It all felt much less abstract than it sounds to try to explain it. All this was happening while I was just sitting there, spinning the ball. The point was that, through making this choice, I didn’t matter, either. I didn’t stand for anything. If I wanted to matter — even just to myself — I would have to be less free, by deciding to choose in some kind of definite way. Even if it was nothing more than an act of will.
David Foster Wallace, The Pale King (via malinian)

(Source: viola-goes-to-hollywood, via ethoslogos-pathos)

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