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Quote by Thomas Merton

“The simple, chaste lines of a monastic Church, built perhaps by unskilled hands in the wilderness, may well say infinitely more in praise of God than the pretentious enormities of costly splendor that are erected to be looked at rather than to be prayed in.”

Quote by Thomas Merton

Book:The Silent Life
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The Silent Life

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Thomas Merton
Thomas Merton

Thomas Merton (January 31, 1915 - December 10, 1968) was an American writer, poet, social critic, and mystic. His works covered a wide range of topics including philosophy, religion, and social justice, and were highly appreciated by readers. more

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“There are quiet places also in the mind,' he said, meditatively. 'But we build bandstands and factories on them. Deliberately - to put a stop to the quietness. We don't like the quietness. All the thoughts, all the preoccupations in my head - round and round, continually.' He made a circular motion with his hand. 'And the jazz bands, the music hall songs, the boys shouting the news. What's it for, what's it all for? To put an end to the quiet, to break it up and disperse it, to pretend at any cost is isn't there. Ah, but is is, it is there, in spite of everything, at the back of everything. Lying awake at night, sometimes - not restlessly, but serenely, waiting for sleep - the quiet reestablishes itself, piece by piece; all the broken bits, all the fragments of it we've been so busily dispersing all day long. It re-establishes itself, an inward quiet, like this outward quiet of grass and trees. It fills one, it grows - a crystal quiet, a growing expanding crystal. It grows, it becomes more perfect; it is beautiful and terrifying, yes, terrifying, as well as beautiful. For one's alone in the crystal and there 's no support from outside, there's nothing external and important, nothing external and trivial to pull oneself up by or stand on, superiorly, contemptuously, so that one can look down. There's nothing to laugh at or feel enthusiastic about. But the quiet grows and grows. Beautifully and unbearably. And at last you are conscious of something approaching; it is almost a faint sound of footsteps. Something inexpressibly lovely and wonderful advances through the crystal, nearer, nearer. And, oh, inexpressibly terrifying. For if it were to touch you, if it were to seize and engulf you, you'd die; all the regular, habitual, daily part of you would die. There would be an end of bandstands and whizzing factories, and one would have to begin living arduously in the quiet, arduously in some strange unheard-of manner. Nearer, nearer come the steps; but one can't face the advancing thing. One daren't. It's too terrifying, it's too painful to die. Quickly, before it is too late, start the factory wheels, bang the drum, blow the saxophone. Think of the women you'dl like to sleep with, the schemes for making money, the gossip about your friends, the last outrage of the politicians. Anything for a diversion. Break the silence, smash the crystal to pieces. There, it lies in bits; it is easily broken, hard to build up and easy to break. And the steps? Ah, those have taken themselves off, double quick. Double quick, they were gone at the first flawing of the crystal. And by this time the lovely and terrifying thing is three infinities away, at least. And you lie tranquilly on your bed, thinking of what you'd do if you had ten thousand pounds and of all the fornications you'll never commit.' He thought of Rosie's pink underwear.”

SilenceCrystalThe Quiet
Book:Antic hay
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“The mantra these days is “talk about your feelings.” It sounds like good advice and perhaps it is. It is said, though, by those who can already speak freely. For others, there are consequences to talking, to admitting to colleagues, friends, family—many of whom are struggling too—that you are struggling. There are difficulties in even finding the words, and then in facing the distinct possibility of someone mumbling something awkward or dismissive in response, breaking eye contact. Words have a weight. Sometimes they are lead.”

SilenceRepression
Book:Inventory: A Memoir
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“...মনে হয় যেন খুব বেশি বলা হয়ে গেল এই কতদিনে। সমস্ত দিনের পর গভীর রাতে বাড়ি ফিরে গ্লানির মতো লাগে। কথা, কথা যেন একটু চুপ ছিল না কোথাও, থাকতে নেই, হাতে হাত রাখতে নেই। যে-নীরবকে খুঁজতে বেরিয়েছিলে, সবাই মিলে, কোথায় সেসব মিলিয়ে গেল বাতাসে, যেন সেসব জানতে নেই কখনও। ...তাই মনে হয় লিখতে হবে নিঃশব্দে কবিতা, এবং নিঃশব্দ কবিতা। শব্দই জানে কেমন করে সে নিঃশব্দ পায়।”

SilenceBengaliBangla
Author:Shankha Ghosh
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