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Quote by Christina Engela

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Pearls Before Swine

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Christina Engela

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“Outside, she thought that there ought to be a word for it: the air temperature that was perfectly neither hot nor cold. One degree lower, and she might have felt a faint misgiving about not having brought a jacket. One degree higher, and a skim of sweat might have glistened at her hairline. But at this precise degree, she required neither wrap nor breeze. Were there a word for such a temperature, there would have to be a corollary for the particular ecstasy of greeting it - the heedlessness, the needlessness, the suspended lack of urgency, as if time could stop, or should. Usually temperature was a battle; only at this exact fulcrum was it an active delight.”

“In the domain of telling stories, a gesture homologous to translation would be a change in the plot of the original narrative which makes us think 'it is only now that we really understand what the story is about.' This is how we should approach numerous recent attempts to stage some classical opera by not only transposing its action into a different (most often contemporary) era, but also by changing some basic facts of the narrative itself. There is no a priori abstract criterion which would allow us to judge its success of failure: each such intervention is a risky act and must be judged by its own immanent standards. Such experiments often ridiculously misfire - however, not always, and there is no way to tell in advance, so one has to take the risk. Only one thing is certain: the only way to be faithful to a classic work is to take such as risk - avoiding it, sticking to the the traditional letter, is the safest way to betray the spirit of the classic. In other words, the only way to keep a classical work alive is to treat it as 'open', pointing towards the future, or, to use the metaphor evoked by Walter Benjamin, to act as if the classic work is a film for which the appropriate chemical liquid to develop was invented only later, so that it is only today that we can get the full picture. In both these cases, that of translation and that of (re)telling stories, the result is thus the same: instead of the original and its translation (or re-telling), both versions are conceived as fragmentary variations of an impossible Idea which can only be discerned by way of bringing out all its variations.”

“Dear Mr. Right People say you don't exist. Yes, I agree no one is perfect but people can be right with all the imperfections and flaws. Can't they? So, You must know that I do believe in you. I do believe somewhere out there you do exist. Yesterday my friend told me that you aren't riding a White horse but the tortoise that is why you are taking eons to reach me. But that's okay with me, I don't have any preference for your choice of a commute as long as you are using Google Maps with me as your destination. You must have detoured a lot. Hope you had fun but now it's time we start our own adventure. So, reach soon. Yours Forever”

“A man cannot un-see the truth. He cannot willingly return to darkness or go blind once he has the gift of sight, anymore than he can be unborn. We are the only species capable of self-reflection. The only species with the toxin of self-doubt written into our genetic code. Unequal to our gifts we build, we buy, we consume. We wrap ourselves in the illusion of material success. We cheat and deceive as we claw our way to the pinnacle of what we define as achievement; superiority to other men. But there is a sickness inside us. Rising like the bile that leaves that bitter taste at the back of our throats. We do our best to deny its existence, dealing in lies and distraction. Until one day the body rebels against the mind and screams out… I am not a well man. Only when we know what ails us can we hope to find the cure.”