hesitant aranta



depicted

[foto de ºCHiViSº--flickr]

incoming
Nicomachean Ethics//Aristotle
Eudemian Ethics//Aristotle
Poetics//Aristotle
De Anima//Aristotle
Cause, Necessity and Blame//Richard Sorabji
The Fragility of Goodness//Martha C. Nussbaum
Essays on Aristotle's Ethics//Amelie Rorty (editor)
Aristotle's Theory of Action//David Charles
Aristotle on Moral Responsibility//Susan S. Meyer
The Fabric of Character//Nancy Sherman
Choosing Character//Jonathan Jacobs
Aristotle's Psychology//Daniel N. Robinson

Volta//Björk
Medùlla//Björk
Vespertine//Björk
Vespertine Live at the Royal Opera House//Björk

Carbon Monoxide//Marlboro Reds
caffeine in not so large ammounts

a whole lotta love

secondary bibliography

overt influences
straying

[...]
Wie ich mechanisch eine neue Zigarrette drehe und die braunen Stäubchen mit feinem Prickeln auf das weißgelbe Löschpapier der Schreibmappe niedertaumeln, will es mir unwarscheinlich werden, daß ich noch wache. Und wie die feuchtwarme Abendluft, die durch das offene Fenster neben mir hereingeht, die Rauchwölkchen so seltsam formt und aus dem Bereich der grünbeschirmten Lampe ins Mattschwarze trägt, steht es mir fest, daß ich schon träume.
Da wird's natürlich schon ganz arg; denn diese Meinung wirft der Phantasie die Zügel auf den Rücken. Hinter mir knackt heimlich neckend die Stuhllehne, daß es mir jäh wie hastiger Schauder durch alle Nerven fährt. Das stört mich ärgerlich in meinem tiefsinnigen Studium der Bizarren Rauchschriftzeichen, die im mich irren, und über die einen Leitfaden zu ferfassen ich bereits entschlossen war.
Aber nun ist die Ruhe zum Teufel. Tolle Bewegung in allen Sinnen. Fiebrisch, nervös, wahnsinnig. Jeder Laut keift. Und mit all dem verwirrt steigt Vergessenes auf. Einst dem Sehsinn Eingeprägtes, das sich seltsam erneut; mit dem Fühlen dazu von damals. [...] Vision. Proza-Skizze//Thomas Mann.


past utterances
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30.3.05

:: atmen ::

my house is full of mirrors.__light keeps refracting and reflecting from one corner to another; the way this house is built, there is not much that can be left out of sight, we have just enough walls to keep the roof from caving in.__sometimes i feel imprisoned in this house, i keep imagining that there's an all seeing eye safe guarding whatever there is to keep safe guarded here.__ when i was a little child, i remember having thought that the devil hid in a corner made of the space between two large pieces of furniture; there were no sources of light to make perceptible the carpet underneath the little bamboo table and the blue-flowered sofa.__i figured that while living in a house where most everything is seen and most everything is known, some strange force was necessary in order to keep a spot in total darkness.__for years i lived with that corner invaded by an extreme fear, refused to sit on any one of the sofas surrounding it and avoided by all means having to plug in the christmas tree -for the plug was to be connected to the wall that gave the corner depth-; how could it be possible for it to remain dark?__later i let go of the concept of the devil, i was far too old to believe that a tall man whose goat legs and pointed tail were too big to hide in such a small place was in fact crouched and breathless between bamboo and cloth.__but i was never able to let go of the fear brought forth by the strangeness of the dark there being, i cannot yet walk up the stairs without turning on the lights in fear of some strange force willing to take me away into the realm of insane delusional irrational beings.__but now she has brought mirrors, a dozen of them scattered, throughout the house, reminding me of the dangers that keep stalking me from that corner.__she has once more become that which is meant to be hated and feared, she has not yet understood the infectious character of her conditions.__and so she brings mirrors to rejoice in her self-contemplation as a being that belongs to another realm, as if the mere recognition lacked by all else were not enough, she craves the absence of all but her image.__sometimes i think that because of her, this house that in my childhood was a lighted panoptic, has become nothing different than a deep puddle, so dense that no light can ever make it's way through, no matter how many mirrors are placed to seek it.__nothing is here seen, nothing is here known.

coming in through my ears::Radio Deutschland Kultur_Live