-in the name of Allah-
Ah, internet soon. InshAllah.
Who said they need a place where time slows down? Is it going too fast?
Hmm, seems like I should write something..
if time runs any faster than it does right now, could you catch it when it flies right past you and you wonder what all that time was about? to me it's like the days just add up one by one, a train being made on tracks that never end until death is dealt with and this life is done. like never before i have conscious recollections of how my actions stir up tricks or treats in almost every kind of confection. still, the end purpose is simply not to watch the earth twist, but catch the moon before it sets, and send a prayer to the Eternal for our eternal success.
eh. Com ci, com ca. Au revoir mon amourie.
How's that for new words in any language?
9 comments:
eh. Com ci, com ca. Au revoir mon amourie.
i speek englishs. =)
as salaamu alaikum,
i was wondering if i could use your post below as reference for a paper on Dostoevskys "consciousness is a disease"
hope all is well...iA
ws
sally
wa'alaikum asalaam,
yeah no prob.
ma'salaam,
wandering
jazaks..
i'm writing a paper on Dostoevskys "Notes from Underground." have you read that?
it's right here, check it out if you havent already..
http://www.kiosek.com/dostoevsky/library/underground.txt
part II talks about consciousness..
"I want now to tell you, gentlemen, whether you care to hear it or not, why
I could not even become an insect. I tell you solemnly, that I have many
times tried to become an insect. But I was not equal even to that. I swear,
gentlemen, that to be too conscious is an illness--a real thorough-going
illness. For man's everyday needs, it would have been quite enough to
have the ordinary human consciousness, that is, half or a quarter of the
amount which falls to the lot of a cultivated man of our unhappy
nineteenth century, especially one who has the fatal ill-luck to inhabit
Petersburg, the most theoretical and intentional town on the whole
terrestrial globe. (There are intentional and unintentional towns.) It
would have been quite enough, for instance, to have the consciousness
by which all so-called direct persons and men of action live. I bet you
think I am writing all this from affectation, to be witty at the expense of
men of action; and what is more, that from ill-bred affectation, I am
clanking a sword like my officer. But, gentlemen, whoever can pride
himself on his diseases and even swagger over them?
Though, after all, everyone does do that; people do pride themselves
on their diseases, and I do, may be, more than anyone. We will not
dispute it; my contention was absurd. But yet I am firmly persuaded that
a great deal of consciousness, every sort of consciousness, in fact, is a
disease. I stick to that. Let us leave that, too, for a minute. Tell me this:
why does it happen that at the very, yes, at the very moments when I am
most capable of feeling every refinement of all that is "sublime and
beautiful," as they used to say at one time, it would, as though of design,
happen to me not only to feel but to do such ugly things, such that ...
Well, in short, actions that all, perhaps, commit; but which, as though
purposely, occurred to me at the very time when I was most conscious
that they ought not to be committed. The more conscious I was of goodness
and of all that was "sublime and beautiful," the more deeply I sank
into my mire and the more ready I was to sink in it altogether. But the
chief point was that all this was, as it were, not accidental in me, but as
though it were bound to be so. It was as though it were my most normal
condition, and not in the least disease or depravity, so that at last all desire
in me to struggle against this depravity passed. It ended by my almost
believing (perhaps actually believing) that this was perhaps my normal
condition. But at first, in the beginning, what agonies I endured in that
struggle! I did not believe it was the same with other people, and all my
life I hid this fact about myself as a secret. I was ashamed (even now,
perhaps, I am ashamed): I got to the point of feeling a sort of secret
abnormal, despicable enjoyment in returning home to my corner on
some disgusting Petersburg night, acutely conscious that that day I had
committed a loathsome action again, that what was done could never be
undone, and secretly, inwardly gnawing, gnawing at myself for it, tearing
and consuming myself till at last the bitterness turned into a sort of
shameful accursed sweetness, and at last--into positive real enjoyment!
Yes, into enjoyment, into enjoyment! I insist upon that. I have spoken of
this because I keep wanting to know for a fact whether other people feel
such enjoyment? I will explain; the enjoyment was just from the too
intense consciousness of one's own degradation; it was from feeling
oneself that one had reached the last barrier, that it was horrible, but that
it could not be otherwise; that there was no escape for you; that you never
could become a different man; that even if time and faith were still left
you to change into something different you would most likely not wish to
change; or if you did wish to, even then you would do nothing; because
perhaps in reality there was nothing for you to change into.
((goes on, i think i pasted a little too much))
ah,
i read some bits and pieces from that so i know where you get that (phrase consciousness is a disease) from. but, after reading crime and punishment, the ending seems to disagree with 'notes from underground', cuz dostoevsky is implying that life can be redeemed, a theme that's apparently also in another book of his 'brothers of kamarazov', which im about to start reading now iA. what do you think it means? (btw, check the dates of publishing, and let me know when dost. published notes from underground vs crime and punishment and brothers of kamarazov; it may be that dost. changed his perspective as time passed, thinking more and more that life was impossibly fixated into [im guessing] either consciousness or lack thereof, either case which would be disastrous).
anyhow, if you have more stuff to add or some point to debate abt dost, let me know (i enjoy scholarly discussion lol). gluck with the paper iA
-wandering
pourquoi offrez-vous votre amour au revoir?
ce ne serait pas amour vrai si je pas.
Allah a allumé mon coeur avec vous; je puis ne jamais parler au revoir
Allah reflète mon âme en vous; il n'a jamais ressenti au revoir seulement en attendant de réunir
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