[..]They leave the demons , and escape by descending into the fifth pit ,where they meet folk clad in leaden cloaks,
gilt outwardly .
These are the hypocrites .
THE DOORS OF PERCEPTION
A Book by A.Huxley
[…]the introduction of non-representational forms into naturalistic paintings and sculptures.
What the rest of us see only under the influence of mescalin,
the artist is congenitally equipped to see all the time.
His perception is not limited to what is biologically or socially useful.
A little of the knowledge belonging to Mind at Large oozes past the reducing valve of brain and ego,
into his consciousness.
It is a knowledge of the intrinsic significance of every existent.
For the artist as for the mescalin taker draperies are living
hieroglyphs that stand in some peculiarly expressive way
for the unfathomable mystery of pure being.[…]
[..]Alice felt so desperate that she was ready to ask help of anyone;
so,when the Rabbit came near her, she began, in a low, timid voice,
‘If you please, sir’
The Rabbit started violently,
dropped the white kid gloves and the fan,
and skurried away into the darkness as hard as he could go.
Alice took up the fan and gloves ,and, as thehall was very hot,
she kept fanning herself all the time she went on talking :
‘Dear, dear! How queer everything is today!
And yesterday things went on just as usual.
I wonder if I’ve been changed in the night?
Let me think: was I the same when I got up this morning?
I almost think I can remember feeling a little different.
But if I’m not the same, the next question is,
Who in the world am I? […]
-A collection of Lewis Carroll best books ,
novel for kids , book metaphysical theories or a mathematical essays ?
think of the deep sea without shuddering at the nameless things that may at this very
moment be crawling and floundering on its slimy bed, worshipping their ancient stone
idols and carving their own detestable likenesses on submarine obelisks of water-soaked
granite. I dream of a day when they may rise above the billows to drag down in their
reeking talons the remnants of puny, war-exhausted mankind — of a day when the land
shall sink, and the dark ocean floor shall ascend amidst universal pandemonium. […]
degree. Though the limestone formation was, on the evidence of such typical imbedded
fossils as ventriculites, positively and unmistakably Comanchian and not a particle
earlier, the free fragments in the hollow space included a surprising proportion from
organisms hitherto considered as peculiar to far older periods – even rudimentary fishes,
mollusks, and corals as remote as the Silunan or Ordovician. The inevitable inference
was that in this part of the world there had been a remarkable and unique degree of
continuity between the life of over three hundred million years ago and that of only thirty
million years ago. How far this continuity had extended beyond the Oligocene Age when
the cavern was closed was of course past all speculation. In any event, the coming of the
frightful ice in the Pleistocene some five hundred thousand years ago – a mere yesterday
as compared with the age of this cavity – must have put an end to any of the primal forms
which had locally managed to outlive their common terms. […]
Yes, he had known it! She was trembling in a real physical
fever. He had expected it. She was getting near the story
of the greatest miracle and a feeling of immense triumph
came over her. Her voice rang out like a bell; triumph and
joy gave it power. The lines danced before her eyes, but
she knew what she was reading by heart. At the last verse
‘Could not this Man which opened the eyes of the blind
inhabited? . . . Are we or they Lords of the World? . . .
And how are all things made for man?—
KEPLER (quoted in The Anatomy of Melancholy)
over everything a thin layer of silver— over the rank grass,
over the mud, upon the wall of matted vegetation standing
higher than the wall of a temple, over the great river I
could see through a sombre gap glittering, glittering, as it
flowed broadly by without a murmur. All this was great,
expectant, mute, while the man jabbered about himself. I
wondered whether the stillness on the face of the
immensity looking at us two were meant as an appeal or as
bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay
crossed. A yellow dressinggown, ungirdled, was sustained
gently behind him on the mild morning air. […]
I’ll read you one of the things he did dream of in a moment.
Meanwhile, listen to what this old Arch-Community-Songster said. ”
He opened the book at the place
marked by a slip of paper and began to read.
“‘We are not our own any more than what we possess is our own.
We did not make ourselves,
we cannot be supreme over ourselves. We are not our own masters.
We are God’s property.
Is it not our happiness
thus to view the matter? Is it any happiness or any comfort, to consider that
we are our own?
It may be thought so by the young and prosperous.
These may think
it a great thing to have everything,
as they suppose,
their own way–to depend on no one–to have to think
of nothing out of sight,
to be without the irksomeness
of continual acknowledgment,
continual reference of what they do to the will of another.
But as time goes on, they, as all men,
will find that independence
was not made for man–that
it is an unnatural state–will do for a while,
but will not carry us on safely to the end …
‘” Mustapha Mond paused,
put down the first book and, picking up the other,
turned over the pages.
“Take this, for example,” he said, and in his deep voice
once more began to read:
“‘A man grows old; he feels in himself that radical sense
of weakness, of listlessness, of discomfort,
which accompanies the advance of age;
and, feeling thus, imagines himself merely sick,
lulling his fears with the notion that this distressing condition is
due to some particular cause,
from which, as from an illness, he hopes to recover.
That sickness is old age; and a horrible disease it is.
They say that it is the fear of death and of what comes
after death that makes men turn to religion as they advance in years.
But my own experience has given me the conviction that,
quite apart from any such terrors or imaginings,
the religious sentiment tends to develop as we grow older;
to develop because, as the passions grow calm,
as the fancy and sensibilities are less excited and less excitable,
our reason becomes less troubled in its working,
less obscured by the images, desires and distractions,
in which it used to be absorbed;
whereupon God emerges as from behind a cloud;
our soul feels, sees, turns towards the source of all light;
turns naturally and inevitably;
for now that all that gave to the world of sensations
its life and charms has begun to leak
away from us,
now that phenomenal existence is
no more bolstered up by impressions from within
or from without,
we feel the need to lean on something that abides,
something that will never play us false–a reality,
an absolute and everlasting truth.
Yes, we inevitably turn to God;
for this religious sentiment is of its nature so pure,
so delightful to the soul that experiences it,
that it makes up to us for all our other losses.'”
Mustapha Mond shut the book and leaned back in his chair.
“One of the numerous things
in heaven and earth that
these philosophers didn’t dream about was this”
(he waved his hand),
“us, the modern world. ‘You can only be independent of God
while you’ve got youth and prosperity;
independence won’t take you safely to the end.
‘ Well, we’ve now got youth and prosperity right up to the end.
Evidently, that we can be independent of God.
‘The religious sentiment will compensate us for all our losses.
‘ But there aren’t any losses for us to compensate;
religious sentiment is superfluous. And why should we go hunting
for a substitute for youthful desires,
when youthful desires never fail?
A substitute for distractions, when we go on enjoying
all the old fooleries to the very last?
What need have we of repose when our minds
and bodies continue to delight in activity?
of consolation, when we have soma?
of something immovable, when there is
the social order?” […]
Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven. […]
Moreau and himself was due to the limited mental scope
of these monsters. In spite of their increased intelligence
and the tendency of their animal instincts to reawaken,
they had certain fixed ideas implanted by Moreau in their
minds, which absolutely bounded their imaginations. They
were really hypnotised; had been told that certain things
were impossible, and that certain things were not to be
done, and these prohibitions were woven into the texture
of their minds beyond any possibility of disobedience or
the horrible part of the thing; for the man trampled calmly
over the, child’s body and left her screaming on the
ground. It sounds nothing to hear, but it was hellish to see.
It wasn’t like a man; it was like some damned Juggernaut.
I gave a view-halloa, took to my heels, collared my
gentleman, and brought him back to where there was
already quite a group about the screaming child. He was
perfectly cool and made no resistance, but gave me one
look, so ugly that it brought out the sweat on me like