Fineness of Perception

Philosophy, if it cannot answer so many questions as we could wish, has at least the power of asking questions which increase the interest of the world, and show the strangeness and wonder lying just below the surface even in the commonest things of daily life.

—Bertrand Russell, The Problems of Philosophy (via man-of-prose)

Fathers and teachers, I ponder ‘What is hell?’ I maintain that it is the suffering of being unable to love.

—Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov (via erikaftw)

(via man-of-prose)

I understand, all right. The hopeless dream of being - not seeming, but being. At every waking moment, alert. The gulf between what you are with others and what you are alone. The vertigo and the constant hunger to be exposed, to be seen through, perhaps even wiped out. Every inflection and every gesture a lie, every smile a grimace. Suicide? No, too vulgar. But you can refuse to move, refuse to talk, so that you don’t have to lie. You can shut yourself in. Then you needn’t play any parts or make wrong gestures. Or so you thought. But reality is diabolical. Your hiding place isn’t watertight. Life trickles in from the outside, and you’re forced to react. No one asks if it is true or false, if you’re genuine or just a sham. Such things matter only in the theatre, and hardly there either. I understand why you don’t speak, why you don’t move, why you’ve created a part for yourself out of apathy. I understand. I admire. You should go on with this part until it is played out, until it loses interest for you. Then you can leave it, just as you’ve left your other parts one by one.

—Ingmar Bergman (via de-licacy)

(Source: ig-narus, via man-of-prose)

Loneliness does not come from having no people about one, but from being unable to communicate the things that seem important to oneself, or from holding certain views which others find inadmissible.

Carl Jung (via hierarchical-aestheticism)

(Source: henretta84, via fleshtemple)

True realism consists in revealing the surprising things which habit keeps covered and prevents us from seeing.

—Jean Cocteau (via itsquoted)

(via enigmaland)