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In order to lead a meaningful life, you need to cherish others, pay attention to human values and try to cultivate inner peace. ↗
Одинок полет Светлячка в ночи. Но в небе - звезды. "В чем же смысл интуитивно возникшего во мне трехстишья? Человек - одинокий светлячок в бескрайнем мраке ночи. Свет его так слаб, что освещает лишь крошечный кусочек пространства, а вокруг лишь холод, тьма и страх. Но если отвести испуганный взгляд от находящейся внизу темной земли и посмотреть ввысь (всего-то и надо - повернуть голову!), то увидишь, что небо покрыто звездами. Они сияют ровным, ярким и вечным светом. Звезды - твои друзья, они помогут и не бросят в беде. А чуть позже ты понимаешь другое, не менее важное: светлячок - тоже звезда, такая же, как все остальные. Те, что в небе, тоже видят твой свет, и он помогает им вынести холод и мрак Вселенной. Наверное, моя жизнь не изменится. Я буду такой же, как прежде, - и суетный, и вздорный, и подверженный страстям. Но в глубине моей души будет жить достоверное знание. Оно спасет и поддержит меня в трудную минуту. Я больше не мелкая лужа, которую может расплескать по земле сильный порыв ветра. Я - океан, и буря, прокатившись всесокрушающим цунами по моей поверхности, не затронет сокровенных моих глубин. ↗
... things are the way they are in our universe because if they Weren't, we would not be here to notice. ↗
The enduring attraction of war is this: Even with its destruction and carnage it can give us what we long for in life. It can give us purpose, meaning, a reason for living. Only when we are in the midst of conflict does the shallowness and vapidness of much of our lives become apparent. Trivia dominates our conversations and increasingly our airwaves. And war is an enticing elixir. It gives us resolve, a cause. It allows us to be noble. And those who have the least meaning in their lives, the impoverished refugees in Gaza, the disenfranchised North African immigrants in France, even the legions of young who live in the splendid indolence and safety of the industrialized world, are all susceptible to war's appeal. ↗
Here, her hand in mine was the one reality that severed us from the cold click-clack of Hell. I rubbed her hand and she sighed; wasn’t that meaning? Wasn’t that something we could cling to? I could be with this other. I could form no other relation, but maybe her hand in mine was enough, both sufficient and necessary. In Hell there was no sense of place, because all places were the same. Uniform monotony. A place without place. A place without context. But, here, now, I could rub her hand and she would sigh. She was a difference. Perhaps each person was the only difference in all these halls of unchanging ranks of books, kiosks, clocks, and carpet, and that, and that, at least, we had to hold to. ↗
Maybe we feel meaning only when we deal with something bigger. Perhaps we hope that someone else, especially someone important to us, will ascribe value to what we've produced? Maybe we need the illusion that our work might one day matter to many people. That it might be of some value in the big, broad world out there [...]? Most likely it is all of these. But fundamentally, I think that almost any aspect of meaning [...] can be sufficient to drive our behaviour. As long as we are doing something that is somewhat connected to our self image, it can fuel our motivation and get us to work much harder. ↗
Le Requiem de Mozart. Un souffle de l'au-delà y plane. Comment croire, après une pareille audition, que l'univers n'ait aucun sens? Il faut qu'il en ait un. Que tant de sublime se résolve dans le néant, le coeur, aussi bien que l'entendement, refuse de l'admettre. Quelque chose doit exister quelque part, un brin de réalité doit être contenu dans ce monde. Ivresse du possible qui rachète la vie. Craignons le retombement et le retour du savoir amer... ↗
