For The Time Being
home · archive · message
“…alone, reviewing my words or deeds soberly, the sense of being cut off always took possession of me. ‘They don’t know me,’ I would say to myself. And by this I meant that they knew me neither for myself nor for what I might become. They were impressed by the mask. I didn’t call it that, but that is how I thought of my ability to impress others. It was not me doing it, but a persona which I knew how to put on. It was something, indeed, which anyone with a little intelligence and a flair for acting could learn to do. Monkey tricks, in other words. Yet, though I regarded these performances in this light, I myself at times would wonder if perhaps it was not me, after all, who was behind these antics.” (Nexus, H.M.)

Favorite authors. Favorite artists. Music that moves me. A few girlie things.

For my writing:

For my art:

For a list of books I've read recently:


I can’t be sacked from my job, because my job’s Education. I believe in teaching people to be individuals, and to understand other individuals. It’s the only thing I do believe in.
Mr. Fielding from “A Passage to India” by E.M. Forster
The poem had done no “good” to anyone, but it was a passing reminder, a breath from the divine lips of beauty, a nightingale between two worlds of dust. Less explicit than the call to Krishna, it voiced our loneliness nevertheless, our isolation, our need for the Friend who never comes yet is not entirely disproved.
From “A Passage to India” by E.M. Forster
…if one isn’t absolutely honest, what is the use of existing?
Adela in “A Passage to India” by E.M. Forster
Trees of a poor quality bordered the road, indeed the whole scene was inferior, and suggested that the countryside was too vast to admit of excellence. In vain did each item in it call out, “come, come.” There was not enough god to go around.

From “A Passage to India” by E.M. Forster

There was not enough god to go around.

And unlocking a drawer, he took out his wife’s photograph. He gazed at it, and tears sprouted from his eyes. He thought, “How unhappy I am!” But because he really was unhappy, another emotion soon mingled with his self-pity: he desired to remember his wife and could not. Why could he remember people whom he did not love? They were always so vivid to him, whereas the more he looked at this photograph, the less he saw. She had eluded him thus, ever since they had carried her to her tomb. He had known she would pass from his hands and eyes, but had thought she could live in his mind, not realizing that the very fact that we have loved the dead increases their unreality, and that the more passionately we invoke them the further they recede.

From “A Passage to India” by E.M. Forster

So good.

She became the mother of a son…and in giving him a second son she died. Then he realized what he had lost, and that no other woman could ever take her place; a friend would come nearer to her than another woman. She had gone, there was no one like her, and what was that uniqueness but love? He amused himself, he forgot her at times: but at other times he felt that she had sent all of the beauty and joy of the world into Paradise, and he meditated suicide. Would he meet her beyond the tomb? Is there such a meeting place? Though orthodox, he did not know. God’s unity was indubitable and indubitably announced, but on all other points he wavered like the average Christian; his belief in the life to come would pale to a hope, vanish, reappear, all in a single sentence or a dozen heart-beats, so that the corpuscles of his blood rather than he seemed to decide which opinion he should hold, and for how long. It was so with all of his opinions. Nothing stayed, nothing passed that did not return; the circulation was ceaseless and kept him young, and he mourned his wife the more sincerely because he mourned her seldom.

From “A Passage to India” by E.M. Forster

The observations, thoughts and the words and writing of this passage really made an impression upon me.

#footloose #dance #the80’s