“In speaking of this desire for our own far off country, which we find in ourselves even now, I feel a certain shyness. I am almost committing an indecency. I am trying to rip open the inconsolable secret in each one of you—the secret which hurts so much that you take your revenge on it by calling it names like Nostalgia and Romanticism and Adolescence; the secret also which pierces with such sweetness that when, in very intimate conversation, the mention of it becomes imminent, we grow awkward and affect to laugh at ourselves; the secret we cannot hide and cannot tell, though we desire to do both. We cannot tell it because it is a desire for something that has never actually appeared in our experience. We cannot hide it because our experience is constantly suggesting it, and we betray ourselves like lovers at the mention of a name. Our commonest expedient is to call it beauty and behave as if that had settled the matter. Wordsworth’s expedient was to identify it with certain moments in his own past. But all this is a cheat. If Wordsworth had gone back to those moments in the past, he would not have found the thing itself, but only the reminder of it; what he remembered would turn out to be itself a remembering. The books or the music in which we thought the beauty was located will betray us if we trust to them; it was not in them, it only came through them, and what came through them was longing. These things—the beauty, the memory of our own past—are good images of what we really desire; but if they are mistaken for the thing itself they turn into dumb idols, breaking the hearts of their worshipers. For they are not the thing itself; they are only the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never yet visited.”

― Excerpt From: The Weight of Glory — CS Lewis

Damm. What makes you want to commit suicide? — Posty McPostface

The Creed

I am a Jedi, an instrument of peace;

Where there is hatred I shall bring love;
Where there is injury, pardon;
Where there is doubt, faith;
Where there is despair, hope;
Where there is darkness, light;
And where there is sadness, joy.

I am a Jedi.

I shall never seek so much to be consoled as to console;
To be understood as to understand;
To be loved as to love;
For it is in giving that we receive;
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
And it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

The Force is with me always, for I am a Jedi. — https://www.templeofthejediorder.org/doctrine-of-the-order

Bands like this are one of several reasons that the midwest remains "flyover land". — Bitter Crank

A scholar is just a library's way of making another library.

I don't know about you, but I am not initially attracted by the idea of my brain a s a sort of dungheap in which the larvae of other people's ideas renew themselves, before sending out copies of themselves in an informational diaspora. It does seem to rob my mind of its importance as both author and critic. Who's in charge, according to this vision -- we or our memes? — Dennett

It's very short. I remember reading it, and being like :s 'why have I just read this?' — Augstino

The Argentine poet Jorge Luis Borges is not typically classified as a philosopher, but in his short stories he has given philosophy some of its most valuable thought experiments, most of them gathered in the stunning collection Labyrinths. Among the best is the fantasy -- actually, it is more a philosophical reflection than a narrative -- that describes the Library of Babel. — Daniel Dennett, Darwin's Dangerous Idea

He (Borges) has a superb conceptual grasp of what Wilbur M. Urban called "the natural metaphysic of the human mind" -- the abstracting, god making, fluid, kaleidoscopic world view possessed by primitive men for want of a body of sure and useful knowledge, and the view to which sophisticated men inevitably return when they despair of truth. The philosophy perennis formulates a circular, predestined universe, capricious and chaotic, capable of an infinite number of equally valid configurations; a world in which everything conceivable is true and where "false" can only mean "unthought." Borges looks upon modern men, with their fixed hiearchy of knowledge and an idea of being that differs radically from the loose cosmologies of their ancient forebears, as if they were a choral group that sings only one dogmatized song. — Carter Wheelock

Where do you get that one market shutting down results in an unrelated other market shutting down? — WISDOMfromPO-MO