We seldom realize how much what we call high culture owes to the mournful, productive type of person with the potent combination of melancholia and energetic initiative. In today’s terminology, we would tend to locate such character images in the region of schizoid structures. They are typical of people who, in psychoanalytic terms, are “born incomplete.” Nothing is more normal for them than being remote from any kind of normality. Their realism is manifested in their tendency to move in the shadow worlds of reverie. By indulging the inclination to encapsulate themselves in webs of moods and conjecture, they sometimes come up with world-shattering revelations.
Here’s a little change of pace. It always helps to shake things up a little. I have no expirience in listening to classical music but while trying to change that, this is one of the first things that really caught my eye (ear?). It’s grand, it’s moving, it’s making you feel powerful, in a serious way that nothing in popular music can match. Well, like in any other post here I’m just sharing the things I like, try it if you haven’t already. There is no life without music.
What I gather ‘Marche Slave’ is a french title, so it isn’t about slaves (what the American Film Academy would probably love) but Slavs, a fine group that I happen to be part of. Yet still, on a serious note, (according to wiki) it was written to support Serbs (fellow Slavs) fighting with Turks a long time ago. Now, in a day when there is a lot of trouble between Russia and Ukraine I won’t try to get polical here, rather I’d be happy to point out that regardless of its’ orgins great art is always international by nature, it shouldn’t be judged by local, national measures and fianlly can’t be brought down to the level of politics and disputes. Long live the Russian art, forget the political leaders.
My grandmother, as I learned afterwards, had at first chosen Mussel’s poems, a volume of Rousseau, and Indiana; for while she considered light reading as unwholesome as sweets and cakes, she did not reflect that the strong breath of genius must have upon the very soul of a child an influence at once more dangerous and less quickening than those of fresh air and country breezes upon his body.
This essey comes with a quote :> https://quotily.wordpress.com/2012/12/30/f-fellini-8-12/
Probably you should often ask yourself if your life is going in the right direction, or maybe do you need to drop some bad habits and a few other questions of this kind. But when you’re done and ready to improve your imperfect self once again, here comes Fellini with a bag of tricks and you know that it’s trouble ahead.
… a mad crackpot genius named Wittgenstein who believed that everything was words. Really. If your car would not start, it was apparently to be
understood as a language problem. If you were unable to love, you were lost in language.
So I was sitting at home today, I made a cup of tea and took an apple then put them side by side. I lean to the laptop (of course) and for a moment I looked down. And it struck me as beautiful.
‘I read,’ I say. ‘I study and read. I bet I’ve read everything you’ve read. Don’t think I haven’t. I consume libraries. I wear out spines and ROM-drives. I do things like get in a taxi and say, “The library, and step on it.”
A man’s not a great poet just because he knows a little grammar and doesn’t violate usage.
What is missing than? Talent? But what is talent precisely? Undefinable greatness? Maybe just simple luck to stumble upon perfect lines? Some say a right moment in history, as exceptional skill alone might not be enough. God’s help? That’s probably overused. Right guidance? Audience? Right pen and right kind of paper? All of the above? Or none of them and hard work instead?