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I like to work in watercolor, with as little under-drawing as I can get away with. I like the unpredictability of a medium which is affected as much by humidity, gravity, the way that heavier particles in the wash settle into the undulations of the paper surface, as by whatever I wish to do with it. In other mediums you have more control, you are responsible for every mark on the page — but with watercolor you are in a dialogue with the paint, it responds to you and you respond to it in turn. Printmaking is also like this, it has an unpredictable element. This encourages an intuitive response, a spontaneity which allows magic to happen on the page. When I begin an illustration, I usually work up from small sketches — which indicate in a simple way something of the atmosphere or dynamics of an illustration; then I do drawings on a larger scale supported by studies from models — usually friends — if figures play a large part in the picture. When I've reached a stage where the drawing looks good enough I'll transfer it to watercolor paper, but I like to leave as much unresolved as possible before starting to put on washes. This allows for an interaction with the medium itself, a dialogue between me and the paint. Otherwise it is too much like painting by number, or a one-sided conversation. ↗
It is an unfortunate fact that proofs can be very misleading. Proofs exist to establish once and for all, according to very high standards, that certain mathematical statements are irrefutable facts. What is unfortunate about this is that a proof, in spite of the fact that it is perfectly correct, does not in any way have to be enlightening. Thus, mathematicians, and mathematics students, are faced with two problems: the generation of proofs, and the generation of internal enlightenment. To understand a theorem requires enlightenment. If one has enlightenment, one knows in one's soul why a particular theorem must be true. ↗
But no, music lasted longer than anything it inspired. After LPs, cassettes, and CDs, when matrimony was about to decay into its component elements—alimony and acrimony—the songs startled him and regained all their previous, pre-Rachel meanings, as if they had not only conjured her but then dismissed her, as if she had been entirely their illusion. He listened to the old songs again, years later on that same dark promenade, when every CD he had ever owned sat nestled in that greatest of all human inventions, the iPod, dialed up and yielding to his fingertip’s tap. The songs now offered him, in exchange for all he had lost, the sensation that there was something still to long for, still, something still approaching, and all that had gone before was merely prologue to an unimaginably profound love yet to seize him. If there was any difference now, it was only that his hunger for music had become more urgent, less a daily pleasure than a daily craving. ↗
بسم الله الرحمن الرحيم حديث قدسي عن النبي صلى الله عليه وسلم قال : قال الله عز وجل يا ابن آدم لا تخافن من ذي سلطان ما دام سلطاني باقيا وسلطاني لا ينفذ ابدا يا ابن ادم لا تخش من ضيق الرزق و خزائني ملآنة ، وخزائني لا تنفذ ابدا يا ابن آدم لا تطلب غيري وأنا لك فإن طلبتني وجدتني وإن فتني فتك وفاتك الخير كله يا ابن آدم خلقتك للعبادة فلا تلعب وقسمت لك رزقك فلا تتعب فإن أنت رضيت بما قسمته لك أرحت قلبك وبدنك وكنت عندي محمودا وان لم ترض بما قسمته لك فوعزني وجلالي لأسلطن عليك الدنيا تركض فيها ركض الوحوش في البرية ثم لا يكون لك منها الا ما قسمته لك وكنت عندي مذموما يا ابن آدم خلقت السموات السبع والاراضي السبع ولم اعيي بخلقهن أيعييني رغيف عيش اسوقه لك بلا تعب؟ يا ابن آدم انه لم انس من عصاني ، فكيف من أطاعني وأنا رب رحيم وعلى كل شيء قدير يا ابن آدم لا تسألني رزق غد كما لم اطالبك بعمل غد يا ابن آدم أنا لك محب فبحقي عليك كن لي محبا ↗
A civilization can easily drown in what it knows as in what doesn't know. Consider,' he continued, Gotho's Folly. Gotho's curse was in being too aware - of everything. Every permutation, every potential. Enough to poison every scan he cast on the world. It availed him naught, and worse, he was aware of even that. ↗
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Margarita was never short of money. She could buy whatever she liked. Her husband had plenty of interesting friends. Margarita never had to cook. Margarita knew nothing of the horrors of living in a shared flat. In short... was she happy? Not for a moment. ↗
I’ve been trying to stay real and true and proud of who I am, all those ideals of how to look I’ve been trying not to care. But I’m still holding my breath, I ‘m still watching every step. I’m still tip-toeing away, when I’m getting to ashamed of myself. I don’t want to be your letdown, I’m scared like hell I’m not enough. I don’t wanna be your failure anymore. — The Glass Child, Letdown ↗
