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Read through the most famous quotes by topic #anti
What are they waiting to see?" Sam follows my gaze and I shrug. "Who knows? You could always do a dance, or tell a joke, or... kiss the bride?" "Not the bride," he wraps his arms around me, and gradually pulls me close. Our noses are practically touching. I can see right into his eyes. I can feel the warmth of his skin. "you." Me. "The girl who stole my phone." His lips brush across the corner of my mouth. "The thief." "It was in a bin." "Still stealing." "No it isn't-," I begin. But now his mouth is firmly on mine, and I can't speak at all. And suddenly, life is good. ↗
In the end, this volume should be read a s a collection of love stories, Above all, they are tales of love, not the love with which so many stories end – the love of fidelity, kindness and fertility – but the other side of love, its cruelty, sterility and duplicity. In a way, the decadents did accept Nordau's idea of the artist as monster. But in nature, the glory and panacea of romanticism, they found nothing. Theirs is an aesthetic that disavows the natural and with it the body. The truly beautiful body is dead, because it is empty. Decadent work is always morbid, but its attraction to death is through art. What they refused was the condemnation of that monster. And yet despite the decadent celebration of artifice, these stories record art's failure in the struggle against natural horror. Nature fights back and wins, and decadent writing remains a remarkable account of that failure. ↗
In trying to find out what Bruno thought of his priesthood, we now have a serious problem which we did not have before. In Venice, he told his fellow-prisoners that he was an enemy of the mass, and thought transubstantiation a ridiculous idea and the Catholic ritual bestial and blasphemous. He compared the elevation of the host to hanging somebody on a gallows, or perhaps to lifting him up on a pitchfork. He told somebody who had dreamt of going to mass that that was a terrible omen; and he performed a mock mass with Ovid's Art of Love instead of a missal. He joked about hungry priests going off from mass to a good breakfast. He spoke particularly ill of the mass as a sacrifice, and said that Abel, the archetype of the sacrificing priest, was a criminal butcher who was rightly killed by the vegetarian Cain. A phrase he used elsewhere, apparently about Christ's passion and not directly about the mass itself, seems nevertheless to express rather exactly his attitude to is: he called it 'some kind of a cabbalistic tragedy'. ↗
#eucharist #giordano-bruno #ovid #priesthood #roman-catholic
The thing with love is, you cannot choose who you fall for. Falling in love often happens at the wrong time, in the wrong place, with the wrong person. Just as much as you cannot stop growing feelings for a certain man, there's no switch to turn off your heart. ↗
One of the rarest and most beautiful things in this world is to meet someone who has the ability to intoxicate you. Every moment with her was exhilarating, and every moment without her was spent captivated by thoughts about her. She was like the finest of wines. And I was getting drunk. ↗
If that isn’t depressing enough, my hard-earned dollars, though paper thin, are getting thinner and thinner as their purchasing power is diluted by the cloning process euphemistically crowned “Quantitative Easing.” I’m no Casanova Economist, but it seems to me that money is like women: You can’t clone your way to sexual prosperity. With that said, I’m certainly not against trying. ↗
This boy," he said, indicating the paintings with one sweep of his arms, "was romantic. He thought that it was beauty that bound everything together. And for him it was true. Life had been beautiful for him. He was very young. He knew very little of life. He saw beauty but he did not feel any true passion. How could he? He did not know. He had not really encountered the force of beauty's opposite." "Are you more cynical now, then?" she asked him. "Cynical," he frowned, "No, not that. I know that there is an ugly side of life-and not just human life. I know that everything is not simply beautiful. I am not a romantic as this boy was. But I am not a cynic either. There is something enduring in all of life, Anne, something tough. Something. Something terribly weak yet incredibly powerful... ↗
A better-constituted boy would certainly have profited under my intelligent tutors, with their scientific apparatus; and would, doubtless, have found the phenomena of electricity and magnetism as fascinating as I was, every Thursday, assured they were. As it was, I could have paired off, for ignorance of whatever was taught me, with the worst Latin scholar that was ever turned out of a classical academy. I read Plutarch, and Shakespeare, and Don Quixote by the sly, and supplied myself in that way with wandering thoughts, while my tutor was assuring me that "an improved man, as distinguished from an ignorant one, was a man who knew the reason why water ran downhill." I had no desire to be this improved man; I was glad of the running water; I could watch it and listen to it gurgling among the pebbles and bathing the bright green water-plants, by the hour together. I did not want to know why it ran; I had perfect confidence that there were good reasons for what was so very beautiful. ("The Lifted Veil") ↗
