We’re taught to think that function is all that matters. But we have a natural longing for this other thing.
What can I say? There are times when holding a needle and thread, or a book, or a man – it’s all the same.
I wish either my father or my mother, or indeed both of them, as they were in duty both equally bound to it, had minded what they were about when they begot me; had they duly consider’d how much depended upon what they were then doing…
Diotima received him with the indulgent smile of an eminent lady who knows
that she is also beautiful and has to forgive men, superficial creatures
that they are, for always thinking of her beauty first.
-Always walls, corridors, always doors and on the other side, yet more walls. Before reaching you, rejoining you, you had no idea what had to be gone through. And now you are here, where I have brought you. You are still hesitant,but you are here,bin the garden within sight, touch, hearing.
-Who are you?
As this blog is supposed to be mainly about literature and becouse calendar says it’s the 8th of march I’d like to remind you of some female figures that I’d met along the way in the imaginary world, the one between the covers. <read on>
‘-Imagine that everything
which a beautiful woman can give one adds up to one
hundred per cent.’
‘-You bookkeeper . . .’
‘-Yes, one hundred. In that case, she gives ninety per cent of
that when one simply sees her, and everything else, the object
of a thousand years of haggling, is no more than an insignificant
remainder. Nor can that first ninety per cent be subdivided
into any component fractions, because beauty is
indefinable and indivisible, no matter what lies Schopenhauer
may try to tell us. As for the other ten per cent, it is no
more than an aggregate sum of nerve signals which would be
totally without value if they were not lent support by imagination