Myth means the telling word. For the Greeks, to tell is to lay bare and make appear---both the appearance and that which has its essence in the appearance, its epiphany. Mythos is what has its essence in its telling---what is apparent in the unconcealedness of its appeal. The mythos is that appeal of foremost and radical concern to all human beings which makes man think of what appears, what is in being. Logos says the same; mythos and logos are not, as our current historians of philosophy claim, placed into opposition by philosophy as such; on the contrary, the early Greek thinkers (Parmenides, fragment 8) are precisely the ones to use mythos and logos in the same sense. Mythos and logos become separated and opposed only at the point where neither mythos nor logos can keep to its original nature. In Plato's work, this separation has already taken place. Historians and philologists, by virtue of a prejudice which modern rationalism adopted from Platonism, imagine that mythos was destroyed by logos. But nothing religious is ever destroyed by logic; it is destroyed only by the God's withdrawal.
-- Heidegger, What Is Called Thinking?, page 10
Sunday, December 15, 2013
Saturday, November 9, 2013
Sunday, October 27, 2013
Saturday, October 26, 2013
"The number of animals consumed in agriculture each year is estimated to be around 146 billion, approximately 56 billion land animals and 90 billion aquatic animals. [...] The number of animals consumed for food every eight months is roughly equal to the total number of Homo sapiens that have ever lived in the entire fifty-thousand-year history of the species."
- Streiffer and Basl, Ethical Issues in the Application of Biotechnology to Animals in Agriculture, 2011, chapter in The Oxford Handbook of Animal Ethics, page 827
- Streiffer and Basl, Ethical Issues in the Application of Biotechnology to Animals in Agriculture, 2011, chapter in The Oxford Handbook of Animal Ethics, page 827
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
Saturday, September 28, 2013
Friday, September 27, 2013
Monday, July 15, 2013
"When the players have played the music through once, they repeat it, only this time, the lead violinist, known as the first violinist, adds extra notes to embellish the melody. Such embellishments would often have been made up on the spot--improvised. Indeed, much of the instrumental music of the Renaissance was improvised. Leonardo da Vinci, the great Italian inventor and painter, was also a fine musician, but he never wrote his music down, he simply made it up on the spot. Improvisation, unfortunately, is no longer a part of Classical music--improvisation in Classical music started disappearing in the nineteenth century."
-- based on Listen, by Kerman
-- based on Listen, by Kerman
Monday, June 10, 2013
As we have already recognized, in the untamed world of direct sensory experience no phenomenon presents itself as utterly passive or inert. To the sensing body all phenomena are animate, actively soliciting the participation of our senses, or else withdrawing from our focus and repelling our involvement. Things disclose themselves to our immediate perception as vectors, as styles of unfolding---not as finished chunks of matter given once and for all, but as dynamic ways of engaging the senses and modulating the body. Each thing, each phenomenon, has the power to reach us and to influence us. Every phenomenon, in other words, is potentially expressive.
-- from The Spell of the Sensuous by David Abram
-- from The Spell of the Sensuous by David Abram
Monday, April 22, 2013
"In order to help yourself you should pick a specific object that belongs to the place you want to go and focus your attention on it," he went on. "On this hilltop here, for instance, you now have a specific bush that you must observe until it has a place in your memory. You can come back here while dreaming simply by recalling that bush, or by recalling this rock where we are sitting, or by recalling any other thing here. It is easier to travel in dreaming when you can focus on a place of power, such as this one. But if you don't want to come here you may use any other place. Perhaps the school where you go is a place of power for you. Use it. Focus your attention on any object there and then find it in dreaming.
"From the specific object you recall, you must go back to your hands and then to another object and so on.
"But now you must focus your attention on everything that exists on this hilltop, because this is the most important place in your life."
He looked at me as if judging the effect of his words.
"This is the place where you will die," he said in a soft voice.
I fidgeted nervously, changing sitting positions, and he smiled.
"I will have to come with you over and over to this hilltop," he said. "And then you will have to come by yourself until you're saturated with it, until the hilltop is oozing you. You will know the time when you are filled with it. This hilltop, as it is now, will then be the place of your last dance."
"What do you mean by my last dance, don Juan?"
"This is the site of your last stand," he said. "You will die here no matter where you are. Every warrior has a place to die. A place of his predilection which is soaked with unforgettable memories, where powerful events left their mark, a place where he has witnessed marvels, where secrets have been revealed to him, a place where he has stored his personal power.
"A warrior has the obligation to go back to that place of his predilection every time he taps power in order to store it there. He either goes there by means of walking or by means of dreaming.
"And finally, one day when his time on earth is up and he feels the tap of his death on his left shoulder, his spirit, which is always ready, flies to the place of his predilection and there the warrior dances to his death.
"Every warrior has a specific form, a specific posture of power, which he develops throughout his life. It is a sort of dance. A movement that he does under the influence of his personal power.
"If a dying warrior has limited power, his dance is short; if his power is grandiose, his dance is magnificent. But regardless of whether his power is small or magnificent, death must stop to witness his last stand on earth. Death cannot overtake the warrior who is recounting the toil of his life for the last time until he has finished his dance."
Don Juan's words made me shiver. The quietness, the twilight, the magnificent scenery, all seemed to have been placed there as props for the image of a warrior's last dance of power.
"Can you teach me that dance even though I am not a warrior?" I asked.
"Any man that hunts power has to learn that dance," he said. "Yet I cannot teach you now. Soon you may have a worthy opponent and I will show you then the first movement of power. You must add the other movements yourself as you go on living. Every new one must be obtained during a struggle of power. So, properly speaking, the posture, the form of a warrior, is the story of his life, a dance that grows as he grows in personal power."
"Does death really stop to see a warrior dance?"
"A warrior is only a man. A humble man. He cannot change the designs of his death. But his impeccable spirit, which has stored power after stupendous hardships, can certainly hold his death for a moment, a moment long enough to let him rejoice for the last time in recalling his power. We may say that that is a gesture which death has with those who have an impeccable spirit."
I experienced an overwhelming anxiety and I talked just to alleviate it. I asked him if he had known warriors that had died, and in what way their last dance had affected their dying.
"Cut it out," he said dryly. "Dying is a monumental affair. It is more than kicking your legs and becoming stiff."
"Will I too dance to my death, don Juan?"
"Certainly. You are hunting personal power even though you don't live like a warrior yet. Today the sun gave you an omen. Your best production in your life's work will be done towards the end of the day. Obviously you don't like the youthful brilliancy of early light. Journeying in the morning doesn't appeal to you. But your cup of tea is the dying sun, old yellowish, and mellow. You don't like the heat, you like the glow.
"And thus you will dance to your death here, on this hilltop, at the end of the day. And in your last dance you will tell of your struggle, of the battles you have won and of those you have lost; you will tell of your joys and bewilderments upon encountering personal power. Your dance will tell about the secrets and about the marvels you have stored. And your death will sit here and watch you.
"The dying sun will glow on you without burning, as it has done today. The wind will be soft and mellow and your hilltop will tremble. As you reach the end of your dance you will look at the sun, for you will never see it again in waking or in dreaming, and then your death will point to the south. To the vastness."
-- Carlos Castaneda, from "Journey to Ixtlan"
"From the specific object you recall, you must go back to your hands and then to another object and so on.
"But now you must focus your attention on everything that exists on this hilltop, because this is the most important place in your life."
He looked at me as if judging the effect of his words.
"This is the place where you will die," he said in a soft voice.
I fidgeted nervously, changing sitting positions, and he smiled.
"I will have to come with you over and over to this hilltop," he said. "And then you will have to come by yourself until you're saturated with it, until the hilltop is oozing you. You will know the time when you are filled with it. This hilltop, as it is now, will then be the place of your last dance."
"What do you mean by my last dance, don Juan?"
"This is the site of your last stand," he said. "You will die here no matter where you are. Every warrior has a place to die. A place of his predilection which is soaked with unforgettable memories, where powerful events left their mark, a place where he has witnessed marvels, where secrets have been revealed to him, a place where he has stored his personal power.
"A warrior has the obligation to go back to that place of his predilection every time he taps power in order to store it there. He either goes there by means of walking or by means of dreaming.
"And finally, one day when his time on earth is up and he feels the tap of his death on his left shoulder, his spirit, which is always ready, flies to the place of his predilection and there the warrior dances to his death.
"Every warrior has a specific form, a specific posture of power, which he develops throughout his life. It is a sort of dance. A movement that he does under the influence of his personal power.
"If a dying warrior has limited power, his dance is short; if his power is grandiose, his dance is magnificent. But regardless of whether his power is small or magnificent, death must stop to witness his last stand on earth. Death cannot overtake the warrior who is recounting the toil of his life for the last time until he has finished his dance."
Don Juan's words made me shiver. The quietness, the twilight, the magnificent scenery, all seemed to have been placed there as props for the image of a warrior's last dance of power.
"Can you teach me that dance even though I am not a warrior?" I asked.
"Any man that hunts power has to learn that dance," he said. "Yet I cannot teach you now. Soon you may have a worthy opponent and I will show you then the first movement of power. You must add the other movements yourself as you go on living. Every new one must be obtained during a struggle of power. So, properly speaking, the posture, the form of a warrior, is the story of his life, a dance that grows as he grows in personal power."
"Does death really stop to see a warrior dance?"
"A warrior is only a man. A humble man. He cannot change the designs of his death. But his impeccable spirit, which has stored power after stupendous hardships, can certainly hold his death for a moment, a moment long enough to let him rejoice for the last time in recalling his power. We may say that that is a gesture which death has with those who have an impeccable spirit."
I experienced an overwhelming anxiety and I talked just to alleviate it. I asked him if he had known warriors that had died, and in what way their last dance had affected their dying.
"Cut it out," he said dryly. "Dying is a monumental affair. It is more than kicking your legs and becoming stiff."
"Will I too dance to my death, don Juan?"
"Certainly. You are hunting personal power even though you don't live like a warrior yet. Today the sun gave you an omen. Your best production in your life's work will be done towards the end of the day. Obviously you don't like the youthful brilliancy of early light. Journeying in the morning doesn't appeal to you. But your cup of tea is the dying sun, old yellowish, and mellow. You don't like the heat, you like the glow.
"And thus you will dance to your death here, on this hilltop, at the end of the day. And in your last dance you will tell of your struggle, of the battles you have won and of those you have lost; you will tell of your joys and bewilderments upon encountering personal power. Your dance will tell about the secrets and about the marvels you have stored. And your death will sit here and watch you.
"The dying sun will glow on you without burning, as it has done today. The wind will be soft and mellow and your hilltop will tremble. As you reach the end of your dance you will look at the sun, for you will never see it again in waking or in dreaming, and then your death will point to the south. To the vastness."
-- Carlos Castaneda, from "Journey to Ixtlan"
Saturday, April 13, 2013
"The centrifugal forces do not flee the center forever, but approach it once again, only to retreat from it yet again: such is the nature of the violent oscillations that overwhelm an individual so long as he seeks only his own center and is incapable of seeing the circle of which he himself is a part; for if these oscillations overwhelm him, it is because each one of them corresponds to an individual other than the one he believes himself to be, from the point of view of the unlocatable center."
-- Klossowski on Nietzsche, quoted in Anti-Oedipus by Deleuze and Guattari
-- Klossowski on Nietzsche, quoted in Anti-Oedipus by Deleuze and Guattari
Sunday, March 24, 2013
[A]s long as the absolute reappropriation of man in his presence is not accomplished, the worst is simultaneously the best. The furthest in time of lost presence is closest to the time of presence regained.
- Derrida, Of Grammatology, discussing the logic in Rousseau in particular, but in metaphysics (as onto-theology) in general
- Derrida, Of Grammatology, discussing the logic in Rousseau in particular, but in metaphysics (as onto-theology) in general
Monday, March 11, 2013
Saturday, February 16, 2013
Friday, February 15, 2013
Thursday, January 3, 2013
If, for instance, one comes upon two human friends unexpectedly meeting for the first time in many months, and one chances to hear their initial words of surprise, greeting, and pleasure, one may readily notice, if one pays close enough attention, a tonal, melodic layer of communication beneath the explicit denotative meaning of the words---a rippling rise and fall of the voices in a sort of musical duet, rather like two birds singing to each other. Each voice, each side of the duet, mimes a bit of the other's melody while adding its own inflection and style, and then is echoed by the other in turn---the two singing bodies thus tuning and attuning to one another, rediscovering a common register, remembering each other. It requires only a slight shift in focus to realize that this melodic singing is carrying the bulk of communication in this encounter, and that the explicit meanings of the actual words ride on the surface of this depth like waves on the surface of the sea.
-- from The Spell of the Sensuous by David Abram
-- from The Spell of the Sensuous by David Abram
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