The meaning of life is not to be discovered only after death in some hidden, mysterious realm; on the contrary, it can be found by eating the succulent fruit of the Tree of Life and by living in the here and now as fully and creatively as we can. Paul Kur
Die Stationen des Lebens August Friedrich Langbein
Schon haben viel Dichter, die lange verblichen, Mit einer Reise das Leben verglichen. Doch hat uns bis heute, so weit mit bekannt, Die vier Stationen noch Keiner genannt.
Die erste geht sanft durch das Ländchen der Kindheit. Da sehn wir, geschlagen mit glücklicher Blindheit, Die lauernden Sorgen am Wege nicht stehn, Und rufen bei Blümchen: Ei, eia, wie schön!
Wir kommen mit klopfendem Herzen zur zweiten, Als Jüngling' und Mädchen, die schon was bedeuten. Hier setzt sich die Liebe mit uns auf die Post, Und reicht uns bald süße, bald bittere Kost.
Die Fahrt auf der dritten gibt tüchtige Schläge. Der heilige Eh'stand verschlimmert die Wege. Oft mehren auch Mädel und Jungen die Noth: Sie laufen am Wagen und schreien nach Brod.
Noch ängstlicher ist auf der Vierten die Reise Für steinalte Mütter und wankende Greise. Der Tod auf dem Kutschbock, als Postillion, Jagt wild über Hügel und Thaler davon.
Auch Reisende, jünger an Kräften und Jahren, Beliebt oft der flüchtige Postknecht zu fahren: Doch alle kutschirt er zum Gasthof der Ruh. Nun, ehrlicher Schwager, wenn das ist, fahr zu!
Ich bin, du Ängstlicher. Hörst du mich nicht mit allen meinen Sinnen an dir branden? Meine Gefühle, welche Flügel fanden, umkreisen weiß dein Angesicht. Siehst du nicht meine Seele, wie sie dicht vor dir in einem Kleid aus Stille steht? Reift nicht mein mailiches Gebet an deinem Blicke wie an einem Baum?
Wenn du der Träumer bist, bin ich dein Traum. Doch wenn du wachen willst, bin ich dein Wille und werde mächtig aller Herrlichkeit und ründe mich wie eine Sternenstille über der wunderlichen Stadt der Zeit.
I am, O Anxious One By Rainer Maria Rilke From the german: Ich bin, du Ängstlicher. Hörst du mich nicht
I am, O Anxious One. Don't you hear my voice surging forth with all my earthly feelings? They yearn so high, that they have sprouted wings and whitely fly in circles round your face. My soul, dressed in silence, rises up and stands alone before you: can't you see? don't you know that my prayer is growing ripe upon your vision as upon a tree?
If you are the dreamer, I am what you dream. But when you want to wake, I am your wish, and I grow strong with all magnificence and turn myself into a star's vast silence above the strange and distant city, Time.
All those who live and move away From Time, that city of distress, All who their hands on stillness lay, Upon a place where no roads stray, That hardly doth a name possess— Thee, blessing high of every day, They name, and write in gentleness:
But prayers alone are real—naught more; Our hands are sanctified—behold! What they have fashioned doth implore: If one doth mow, or sacred lore Doth paint—the very tools adore, In toil a piety unfold.
And time in many shapes is told. We hear of time and yet we do The everlasting and the old. We know that God us doth enfold Grand like a beard, a garment, too. We lie within His glory’s gold, As veins the hard basalt run through.
Liberty is meaningless where the right to utter one’s thoughts and opinions has ceased to exist. That, of all rights, is the dread of tyrants. It is the right which they first of all strike down. Frederick Douglass
Give me the liberty to know, to utter, and to argue freely according to conscience, above all liberties. John Milton
Vieillir en beauté, c'est vieillir avec son coeur ; Sans remords, sans regrets, sans regarder l'heure ; Aller de l'avant, arrêter d'avoir peur ; Car, à chaque âge, se rattache un bonheur.
Vieillir en beauté, c'est vieillir avec son corps ; Le garder sain en dedans, beau en dehors. Ne jamais abdiquer devant un effort. L'âge n'a rien à voir avec la mort.
Vieillir en beauté, c'est donner un coup de pouce À ceux qui se sentent perdus dans la brousse, Qui ne croient plus que la vie peut être douce Et qu'il y a toujours quelqu'un à la rescousse.
Vieillir en beauté, c'est vieillir positivement. Ne pas pleurer sur ses souvenirs d'antan. Être fier d'avoir les cheveux blancs, Car, pour être heureux, on a encore le temps.
Vieillir en beauté, c'est vieillir avec amour, Savoir donner sans rien attendre en retour ; Car, où que l'on soit, à l'aube du jour, Il y a quelqu'un à qui dire bonjour.
Vieillir en beauté, c'est vieillir avec espoir ; Être content de soi en se couchant le soir. Et lorsque viendra le point de non-recevoir, Se dire qu'au fond, ce n'est qu'un au revoir.
À l'intime du cœur, aux espaces de temps vécus silencieusement, j'ai souvent rêvé ! Je l'ai souvent rêvé, pur et intense, sans limite et sans retenue, laissant librement s'exprimer pensées intimes... émotions éprouvées... en transparence cristalline... joies comme peines, espérances comme déceptions, élans de vie comme descentes profondes, idéal exaltant autant que lassitude...
toutes telles que vécues spontanées et sans préméditation... sans conséquence autre qu'espérance bienfaisante... sans autre but que de les vivre et les dire aux moments précis où elles émergent... sans passé et sans lendemain, mais souvent revécues et dans l'attente tranquille de les revivre avec le même élan de liberté...
L'ai souvent rêvée belle et bonne comme fleur pleinement ouverte au soleil, transparente de lumière éclatante de beauté, exhalant rare parfum, pénétrant tout l'être qui la voit, d'une indicible émotion... L'ai souvent rêvée fleur prenant sa place dans le jardin de la vie, sans l'enlever à l'autre à côté d'elle et que l'autre ne lui enlève pas...
fleur prenant sa part d'air et de lumière sans en priver l'autre... fleur puisant à la même terre sans l'appauvrir, au même coeur sans le partager. Un jour, Oh! L'heureux jour, j'ai cru, un moment, que mon rêve n'en était plus un et qu'il ne se distinguait pas de la réalité...
et la joie m'a monté au cœur ! et la joie l'a envahi jusqu'à l'éclatement !
Qui a brisé mon rêve ? Était-il illusion ? Était-il rêve ? Était-il réalité ? Il s'évanouissait, revenait, m'échappait à nouveau...
Je voulais reprendre mon rêve pour m'y accrocher, n'y parvenais pas s'échappant sans cesse, s'éloignant constamment, s'évanouissant chaque fois que je tentais de le reprendre... Alors, j'eus peur qu'il fut impossible. Et j'ai eu mal, tellement mal... Je l'avais tant de temps espéré, l'avais tant désiré... il est venu si près !
J'avais pourtant entendu les mots tendres et chauds... avais pourtant vu son regard rempli d'émotion...
Alors mon espérance a repris, elle renaissait... rêve ou réalité, peu importe... tu étais là tour à tour confondue, rêve devenu réalité, réalité sortie du rêve, comblant ma longue espérance ;
tu étais là, pure, intense, libre... tu étais là, fleur lumineuse et belle, suscitant l'indicible émotion... tu étais là, prenant place dans le jardin de ma vie... tu étais là et tu as nom : AMITIÉ !
We were written in the stars, my love, all that separated us, was time, the time it took to read the map which was placed within our hearts, to find our way back to one another. Source Unknown
Traveling is all very well if you can get home at night. I would be willing to go around the world if I came back in time to light the candles and set the table for supper. I cannot conceivably influence the world's destiny, but I can make my own life more worthwhile. I can give some help to some people; that is not vital to all the world's problems and yet I think if everyone did just that, we might see quite a world in our time! Gladys Taber
Can I see another's woe, And not be in sorrow too? Can I see another's grief, And not seek for kind relief?
Can I see a falling tear, And not feel my sorrow's share? Can a father see his child Weep, nor be with sorrow filled?
Can a mother sit and hear An infant groan, an infant fear? No, no! never can it be! Never, never can it be!
And can He who smiles on all Hear the wren with sorrows small, Hear the small bird's grief and care, Hear the woes that infants bear --
And not sit beside the next, Pouring pity in their breast, And not sit the cradle near, Weeping tear on infant's tear?
And not sit both night and day, Wiping all our tears away? Oh no! never can it be! Never, never can it be! He doth give his joy to all: He becomes an infant small, He becomes a man of woe, He doth feel the sorrow too.
Think not thou canst sigh a sigh, And thy Maker is not by: Think not thou canst weep a tear, And thy Maker is not near.
Oh He gives to us his joy, That our grief He may destroy: Till our grief is fled an gone He doth sit by us and moan
You can hold yourself back from the sufferings of the world, that is something you are free to do and it accords with your nature, but perhaps this very holding back is the one suffering you could avoid". Franz Kafka
This is what I believe: That I am I. That my soul is a dark forest. That my known self will never be more than a little clearing in the forest. That gods, strange gods, come forth from the forest intothe clearing of my known self, and then go back. That I must have the courage to let them come and go. That I will never let mankind put anything over me, but that I will try always to recognize and submit to the gods in me and the gods in other men and women. There is my creed. D.H. Lawrence
Finally consider that even the seeker after knowledge forces his spirit to recognige things against the inclination of the spirit , and often enough also against the wishes of his heart--by way of saying no where he would like to say yes,love, and adore--- and thus acts as an artist and transfigurer of cruelty. Friedrich Nietzsche
The rose, my lady, that you wear, It heard a whisper down the air. It heard, and then it understood, And in its daily habitude, Remembered, gladly, why it grew, That, only, it was meant for you. No whisper ever more divine, Could any rose-bud's heart enshrine. It lived that only it might be Your happiness and eulogy. I wonder if it ever knew The source in which its whisper grew And who, above its cradled face, Had kissed it with intent and place? And was it some sweet angel dressed In garments of divinest guest, And breathing in its waiting heart A tender message to impart? My lady fair, the rose you wear Gave up its life that you might care. Think, as you breathe its odorous air, Before you place it 'gainst your hair, The sacrifice it gladly made To linger where the tresses braid, To make more beautiful your face, And figure, now complete with grace! A whisper, one day, come to me, And with the rarest melody It bade me grow, and falter not, Since for sweet love was I begot. Oh, lady fair, the rose you wear Heard the same whisper down the air, As came to me, one happy day, That with you always, I should stay. Come, take my heart that only grows For you, as did the crimson rose. For you it grew, and only you, The angel of its faultless view. You laid the whisper in its heart, And never will its song depart. It lived for this one happy day, To come to you as roses may. Divinely blessed is rose or man That answers to love's whispered plan, And gladly owns it paradise To be love's perfect sacrifice.
The appearance of things change according to the emotions, and thus we see magic and beauty in them, while the magic and beauty are really in ourselves. Kahlil Gibran
In men whom men condemn as ill I find so much of goodness still, In men whom men pronounce divine I find so much of sin and blot, I do not dare to draw a line Between the two, where God has not. Joaquin Miller
Who now shall accuse and arraign us? What man shall condemn and disown? Since Christ has said only the stainless Shall cast at his fellows a stone. Joaquin Miller
Our highest assurance of the goodness of Providence seems to me to rest in the flowers. All other things, our powers, our desires, our food, are all really necessary for our existence in the first instance. But this rose is an extra. Its smell and its color are an embellishment of life, not a condition of it. It is only goodness which gives extras, and so I say again that we have much to hope from the flowers. SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
Bury thy sorrows, and they shall rise As souls to the immortal skies, And there look down like mothers' eyes.
But let thy joys be fresh as flowers, That suck the honey of the showers, And bloom alike on huts and towers. So shall thy days be sweet and bright; Solemn and sweet thy starry night, Conscious of love each change of light. The stars will watch the flowers asleep, The flowers will feel the soft stars weep, And both will mix sensations deep. Witt these below, with those above, Sits evermore the brooding dove, Uniting both in bonds of love. For both by nature are akin; Sorrow, the ashen fruit of sin, And joy, the juice of life within. Children of earth are these; and those The spirits of divine repose - Death radiant o'er all human woes. O, think what then had been thy doom, If homeless and without a tomb They had been left to haunt the gloom! O, think again what now they are - Motherly love, tho' dim and far, Imaged in every lustrous star. For they, in their salvation, know No vestige of their former woe, While thro' them all the heavens do flow. Thus art thou wedded to the skies, And watched by ever-loving eyes, And warned by yearning sympathies.
On Another's Sorrow William Blake
Painting of Morteza Katouzian
Can I see another's woe, And not be in sorrow too? Can I see another's grief, And not seek for kind relief?
Can I see a falling tear, And not feel my sorrow's share? Can a father see his child Weep, nor be with sorrow filled?
Can a mother sit and hear An infant groan, an infant fear? No, no! never can it be! Never, never can it be!
And can He who smiles on all Hear the wren with sorrows small, Hear the small bird's grief and care, Hear the woes that infants bear --
And not sit beside the next, Pouring pity in their breast, And not sit the cradle near, Weeping tear on infant's tear?
And not sit both night and day, Wiping all our tears away? Oh no! never can it be! Never, never can it be! He doth give his joy to all: He becomes an infant small, He becomes a man of woe, He doth feel the sorrow too.
Think not thou canst sigh a sigh, And thy Maker is not by: Think not thou canst weep a tear, And thy Maker is not near.
Oh He gives to us his joy, That our grief He may destroy: Till our grief is fled an gone He doth sit by us and moan
Art by Fernand Toussaint
There is no despair so absolute as that which comes with the first moments of our first great sorrow, when we have not yet known what it is to have suffered and be healed, to have despaired and to have recovered hope. GEORGE ELIOT
You can hold yourself back from the sufferings of the world, that is something you are free to do and it accords with your nature, but perhaps this very holding back is the one suffering you could avoid". Franz Kafka
