hersuavevoice - Bellezza è destino
Bellezza è destino

Anna, trainee attorney-at-law.

765 posts

In Arabic The Word For Logos (logic, Nous, Psyche) Is Aeql, Which Literally Means To Bond, Forming Connections

In Arabic the word for logos (logic, nous, psyche) is aeql, which literally means “to bond”, forming connections between things.

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1 year ago

She is your last and true and only love, he thought, and that’s not evil. It is only unfortunate.

Ernest Hemingway, Across the River and into the Trees, 1950


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1 year ago

“One of the mixed blessings of being twenty and twenty-one and even twenty-three is the conviction that nothing like this, all evidence to the contrary notwithstanding, has ever happened before.”

— Joan Didion, Slouching Towards Bethlehem


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1 year ago
I believe Octobers are created to tell us that life bends towards us everyday. That when I lock eyes with a stranger, there’s a wild desire to bleed for love. That when I hold things in my trying hands and not pick at the edges, I can keep the pressure for all its worth.

"October" by Dion Anja, from Motion Sickness

You can buy Motion Sickness now!

1 year ago

In evening’s dome each bird is a point of memory. It’s amazing sometimes how the years’ fervor returns, returns without a body, returns for no reason at all, how beauty, so brief in its violent love, saves us an echo as night falls.

And so, what can you do but stand there slack-armed, your heart overloaded and that taste of dust that was a rose or a road— Flight outflies the wing. Without humility you know this remnant was wrung from the dark by the work of silence, that the branch in your hand, the dark tear are your inheritance, the man with his story, the lamp shining its light.

— Julio Cortázar, “Resumen en otoño” (tr. Stephen Kessler)

En la bóveda de la tarde cada pájaro es un punto del recuerdo. Asombra a veces que el fervor del tiempo vuelva, sin cuerpo vuelva, ya sin motivo vuelva; que la belleza, tan breve en su violento amor nos guarde un eco en el descenso de la noche.

Y así, qué más que estarse con los brazos caídos, el corazón amontonado y ese sabor de polvo que fue rosa o camino— El vuelo excede el ala. Sin humildad, saber que esto que resta fue ganado a la sombra por obra de silencio; que la rama en la mano, que la lágrima oscura son heredad, el hombre con su historia, la lámpara que alumbra.


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