Monday, October 31, 2005
Sunday, October 30, 2005
Saturday, October 29, 2005
Friday, October 28, 2005
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
"The boys wore crepe-soled shoes, polyester pants and the girls wore skirts with the crinoline underneath. You must have the crinoline," said Cooksie Magnolia, who grew up with Emmett on the same street. "Young girls wore flared skirts so when their male partners spun them around, their skirts would have that extra flare."
"That was a good time because where we grew up, a lot of guys listened to the Moonglows, the Coasters, the Flamingos and the Spaniels," said Richard Heard, one of Emmett's classmates. "We'd try to imitate them in our little singing groups. It was a lot of fun."
One afternoon, Heard was invited to Emmett's house for bologna sandwiches and Kool-Aid. They were all looking forward to returning to school together in the fall where they would complete eighth grade and move on to high school. Heard never knew that would be the last time he would see his friend alive.
"Emmett was a funny guy all the time. He had a suitcase of jokes that he liked to tell," said Heard. "He loved to make people laugh. He was a chubby kid; most of the guys were skinny, but he didn't let that stand in his way. He made a lot of friends at McCosh Grammar School where we went to school."* Just months after Emmett Till's murder, Look magazine published "The Shocking Story of Approved Killing in Mississippi," in which Roy Bryant and J. W. Milam confessed to the crime.
Journalist William Bradford Huie recalled the interview:
Monday, October 24, 2005
Sunday, October 23, 2005
Saturday, October 22, 2005
Friday, October 21, 2005
Thursday, October 20, 2005
i like my body when it is with your body. It is so quite new a thing. Muscles better and nerves more. i like your body. i like what it does, i like its hows. i like to feel the spine of your body and its bones, and the trembling -firm-smooth ness and which i will again and again and again kiss, i like kissing this and that of you, i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes over parting flesh . . . . And eyes big love-crumbs, and possibly i like the thrill of under me you so quite new
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
*Puxian-Bodhisattva of Universal Benevolence or Samantabhadra
Having passed over the nearest mountains we entered a delightful vale, where we perceived a multitude of persons at a feast of living bulls, whose flesh they cut away with great knives, making a table of the creature’s carcase, serenaded by the bellowing of the unfortunate animal. Nothing seemed requisite to add to the barbarity of this feast but kava, made as described in Cook’s voyages, and at the conclusion of the feast we perceived them brewing this liquor, which they drank with the utmost avidity. From that moment, inspired with an idea of universal benevolence, I determined to abolish the custom of eating live flesh and drinking of kava. But I knew that such a thing could not be immediately effected, whatever in future time might be performed.
Monday, October 17, 2005
The Furies or, Erinyes, were the avenging deities, the angry goddesses of the curse pronounced upon evil-doers.
According to Hesiod they were the daughters of Earth, and sprang from the blood of the mutilated Uranus; in Aeschylus they are the daughters of Night, in Sophocles of Darkness and Earth.
Sometimes one Erinyes is mentioned, sometimes several. Euripides first spoke of them as three in number, to whom later Alexandrian writers gave the names Alecto (unceasing in anger), Tisiphone (avenger of murder), and Megaera (jealous).
Their home is the underworld, but they ascend to earth to pursue the wicked. They punish all offences against the laws of human society, such as perjury, violation of the rites of hospitality, and, above all, the murder of relations. But they are not without benevolent and beneficent attributes. When the sinner has expiated his crime they are ready to forgive.
Thus, their persecution of Orestes ceases after his acquittal by the Areopagus. It is said that on this occasion they were first called Eumenides ("the kindly"), a euphemistic variant of their real name.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Saturday, October 15, 2005
Friday, October 14, 2005
The great immutable decrees which forever keep order in the infinite realm of manifested life are all based upon the one great principle of creation, love. That is the heart, the source of all & the very hub upon which existence in form takes place. Love is harmony & without it in the beginning of a form that form could not come into existence at all. Love is the cohesive power of the universe & without it a universe could not be.
In your scientific world love expresses itself as the attractive force between the electrons. It is the directive intelligence which wills them into form, the power which keeps them whirling around a central core & the breath within the core that draws them to it. The same thing is true of each vortex of force everywhere in creation. A central core & the electrons whirling around it form an atom. This core of love is to the atom what the magnetic pole is to the Earth & what the spine is to the human body. Without a central core or heart-center there is only the unformed universal light, the electrons filling infinity & whirling around the Great Central Sun.
The electron is pure spirit or light of God. It remains forever uncontaminated & perfect. It is eternally self-sustained, indestructible, self-luminous & intelligent. It is immortal, ever-pure, intelligent light-energy & the only real true substance out of which everything in the universe is made, the eternally perfect life-essence of God. Interstellar space is filled with this pure light-essence. It is not dark & in chaos as has been the ignorant limited concept of puny human intellects. This great sea of universal light that exists everywhere throughout infinity is constantly being drawn into form & given a quality of one kind or another according to the way the electrons are held around a central point or core by love.
The number of electrons which combine with each other in a specific atom is the result of & determined by conscious thought. The rate at which they whirl around the central core is the result of & determined by feeling. The intensity of the drawing & whirling motion within the central core is the breath of God & therefore the most concentrated activity of divine love. Speaking in scientific terms it would be called centripetal force. There are the determining factors which make the quality of an atom.
Thus you will see the atom is an entity, a living breathing thing created or brought into existence by the breath, the love of God, thru the will of self-conscious intelligence. In this way the Word is made flesh. The machinery that self-conscious intelligence uses to accomplish this manifestation of its being is thought & feeling. Destructive thought & discordant feeling so rearrange the ratio & rate of speed of the electrons within the atom that the duration of the breath of God within the pole is changed. The duration of the breath is decreed by the will of the consciousness using that particular kind of atom. If that conscious directing will is withdrawn the electrons lose their polarity & fly apart seeking their way back intelligently mind you to the Great Central Sun, repolarizing themselves. There they receive love only, the breath of God is never-ending & order--the first law--is eternally maintained.
Some scientists have claimed & taught that planets collide in space. No such thing is possible. To do so would be to throw the entire plan of creation into chaos. It really is fortunate indeed that the mighty laws of God are not limited to the opinions of some of the children of earth. It does not matter what any scientist thinks, God-creation is ever moving forward & expressing more & more perfection.
Constructive thought & harmonious feeling within a human mind & body are the activities of love & order. These permit the perfect ratio & speed of the electrons within the atom to remain permanent & thus they stay polarized at their particular point in the universe as long as the duration of the breath of God within their core is held steady by the will of the directing self-conscious intelligence using the body in which they exist. In this way the quality of perfection & maintenance of life in a human body is always under the consscious control of the will of the individual occupying it. The will of the individual is supreme over his temple & even in cases of accident no one leaves his body temple until he wills to do so. Very often pain in the body, fear, uncertainty & many other things influence the personality to change its decisions concerning what it has willed in the past, but everything that happens to the body is & will always be under the control of the individual's freewill.
To understand the above explanation concerning the electron & the conscious control the individual has thru his thought & feeling to govern the atomic structure of his own body is to understand the one principle governing form thruout infinity. When man will make the effort to prove this to himself or within his own atomic fleshbody he will then proceed to master himself. When he has done that all else in the universe is his willing co-worker to accomplish whatsoever he wills thru love. Whoever makes himself willingly obedient unto the law of love has perfection in his mind & world permanently maintained. Unto him & him alone does all authority & mastery belong. He only has the right to rule because he has first learned to obey. When he has obtained obedience from the atomic structure within his own mind & body all atomic structure outside of his own mind & body will obey him also.
Thus each individual thru thought & feeling has the power to rise to the highest or sink to the lowest. Each one alone determines his own pathway of experience. By conscious control of his attention as to what he allows his mind to accept he can walk & talk with God face to face or, looking away from God, become lower than the animals sinking his human consciousness into oblivion. In the latter case the God-flame within him then withdraws from its human habitation. After aeons of time it tries a human journey once again into the world of physical matter until final victory is accomplished consciously & of its own freewill.
One of the services of the seventh ray is to help to sublimate & transmute impure substance drawn into the forcefields around electrons in the emotional, mental, etheric & physical bodies. Thus the individual redeems consciously all the energy he has drawn thru the ages & used for experimentation. As in a carpenter's workshop there are many shavings, much sawdust & other residue which result from his endeavors to produce a form of beauty so there is in the aura much residue which results from experimentation with the tools of creation.
The good carpenter not only produces a beautiful piece of furniture but cleans up his workshop as well. The good honest chela in the process of ascending into his God-estate has the use of the violet fire to clean up the residue of his experimentations with life while consciously developing his own divine nature. This is balance, spiritual integriy & mercy to the rest of the universe. Too long have the nature kingdom & the ascended host continued to transmute this residue for man! Now he has the way & means of making this personal transmutation of the energies for which he is accountable. At the same time he thus qualifies to become an ascended being himself!
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Monday, October 10, 2005
Sunday, October 09, 2005
Saturday, October 08, 2005
|Hello, and welcome to Porta Ludovica! And a special congratulations to any visitors from Milan who have managed to break free from “Milanese Space,” but I regret to inform you that this Porta Ludovica exists only in cyberspace, and will not help you in triangulating your way back to Piazza Napoli. Sorry! Umberto Eco is an Italian writer of fiction, essays, academic texts, and children’s books, and certainly one of the finest authors of the twentieth century. A professor of semiotics at the University of Bologna, Eco’s brilliant fiction is known for its playful use of language and symbols, its astonishing array of allusions and references, and clever use of puzzles and narrative inventions. His perceptive essays on modern culture are filled with a delightful sense of humor and irony, and his ideas on semiotics, interpretation, and aesthetics have established his reputation as one of academia’s foremost thinkers.|
|The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana Annotation Project - An ever-growing resource on the countless allusions and quotations in Umberto Eco's latest novel. The Annotation Project is a wiki, a web page that anyone can modify. |
Interview with Geoff Brock – Eco's new translator on the upcoming publication of The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana, Eco's fifth novel.
Mystery of the Abbey A murder mystery game loosely based on Name of the Rose.
Eco on the Diane Rehm Show Eco talks on WAMU of Washington, D.C. with host Diane Rehm about Queen Loana. Streaming audio available, and you can also purchase the program on tape or CD.
The Gorge A chapter of Eco’s new novel is now online at the New Yorker.
New Eco Novel! The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana now in stores. Details here!
Name of the Rose Film Finally released on DVD.
|The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana Eco's fifth novel.||On Literature A collection of essays about literature.||History of Beauty An illustrated exploration of historical concepts of beauty.|
Paradox of Porta Ludovica (A Study of Ambiguous Triangulation)
A short explanation on who I am and why this site is named for a place that may or may not be in Milan. |
My name is Umberto Umberto (Biography) A small biographical sketch of Umberto Eco.
I construct Aristotelian Machines, that allow anyone to see with Words (Works – Fiction & Nonfiction) A look at his literary output, from his novels to his academic texts. Most have a small summary and some commentary.
Unheard-of Curiosities (Eco’s Writings & Essays) A collection of essays and short writings by Umberto Eco avalaible online for perusal.
Reviewers will unhesitatingly recommend it as required reading in the schools (Reviews) Reviews of works by and about Eco, culled from newspapers, magazines, and online sources.
In the construction of Immortal Fame you need first of all a cosmic shamelessness (Interviews & Articles) The Professor in interview and articles; also culled from newspapers, magazines, and online sources.
A novel, which is a machine for generating interpretations (Criticism) Articles and books of academic criticism written about Eco and his works.
Mystical. Dramatic. Baroque. Algolagnical. Scatological. Sadomasochistic. (Quotations) A collection of interesting quotations and remarks made by Eco in his fiction and nonfiction.
I shrink into one remote corner of my mind, to draw from it a story (Books on Tape) A listing and review of some audio versions of Eco’s novels.
The Great Art of Light and Shadow (Cinema, Theater & Music) Eco’s works and influences in non-printed media, from the film The Name of the Rose to Robert Wilson’s The Days Before.
Sext: In which Adso admires the door of the church (Images) Photographs of Eco and of subjects relating to his works, plus a few interesting things I created myself with Photoshop after a zillion cups of coffee.
Sir, no person of sense believes in these historiettes! (Papers about Eco) Links to a few papers or essays related to Eco found around the Web.
The Curious Learning of the Wits of the Day (Eco Online Communities: Reading Groups, Mailing Lists & Newsgroups) Links to Eco-ralted online communities, including Specula, the new Umberto Eco Mailing List.
Advancing into the forest of resemblances (Links) Links to other sites relating to Eco or his works.
I would advise against getting involved with a man like this: we’ll end up with a mountain of his books in the warehouse (Bookstore) A very comprehensive catalog of Eco works and Eco-related titles, directly available for ordering online through Amazon.com Books.
“You cannot believe what you are saying.” (FAQ: Frequently Asked Questions) Do you have a question about Umberto Eco, this Web site, or the fellow who runs it? Try the Porta Ludovica FAQ file first.
That one is a heron, he said to himself, that a crane, a quail. (Contact) Send email to the Great Quail – comments, suggestions, corrections, criticisms, submissions . . . all are welcome.
Friday, October 07, 2005
For Carl Solomon
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to thestarry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water fiats 'doating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night,
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls,
incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,
who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's floated out and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi's, I listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,
a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon, yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,
whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement,
who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,
suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark's bleak furnished room,
who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,
who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night,
who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telepathy and bop kaballa because the cosmos instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,
who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels,
who were visionary indian angels,
who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain,
who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,
who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago,
who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the E.B.I. in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets,
who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,
who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed,
who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,
who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,
who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts,
who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love,
who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may,
who hiccupped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blonde & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword,
who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman's loom,
who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a candle and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,
who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake,
who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver--joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too
who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hungover with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices,
who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open to a room full of steamheat and opium,
who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of Bowery,
who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music,
who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts,
who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology,
who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish,
who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom,
who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg,
who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade,
who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried,
who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,
who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,
who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930'S German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steam-whistles,
who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other's hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation,
who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity.
who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,
who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other's salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,
who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz,
who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddhas or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive' or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisy-chain or grave,
who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury,
who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous lobotomy,
and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin metrasol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia,
who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,
returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of the madtowns of the East,
Pilgrim State's Rockland's and Greystone's foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon,
with mother finally * * * * * *, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 AM and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination--
ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you're really in the total animal soup of time--
and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipse the catalog the meter & the vibrating plane,
who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus
to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head,
the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death,
and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America's naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio
with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
"In freedom we would not institute a wholesale robber to protect us from petty larceny."
"...for the line can theoretically be drawn anywhere in the formation of identities and consciousness. And herein lies your freedom."
"In your system of reality you are learning what mental energy is, and how to use it. You do this by constantly transforming your thoughts and emotions into physical form. You are supposed to get a clear picture of your inner development by perceiving the exterior environment. What seems to be a perception, an objective concrete event, independent and apart from you the perceiver, is instead the physical materialization of the perceiver's own inner emotions, energy and mental environment.""An ancient manuscript stands in this respect in a somewhat different position from a modern book. If it is not the original work of the author himself, it has at any rate been copied word by word by some person of a certain education and understanding, who knew the subject of the book, and had his own opinions about it. It must be remembered that copying (done usually with a stylus) is almost as slow and emphatic as engraving; so that the writer inevitably empresses his thought strongly on his handiwork. Any manuscript, therefore, even a new one, has always some sort of thought-aura about it which conveys its general meaning, or rather one man's idea of its meaning and his estimate of its value. Every time it is read by anyone an addition is made to that thought-aura, and if it be carefully studied the addition is naturally large and valuable."
This is equally true of a printed volume. A book which has passed through many hands has an aura which is usually better balanced than that of a new one, because it is rounded off and completed by the divergent views brought to it by its many readers; consequently the psychometrization of such a book generally yields a fairly full comprehension of its contents, though with a considerable fringe of opinions not expressed in the book, but held by its various readers.On the other hand, a book used in a public library is not infrequently as unpleasant psychically as it usually is physically, for it becomes loaded with all kinds of mixed magnetism, many of them of a most unsavory character. The sensitive person will do well to avoid such books, or if necessity compels him to use them he will be wise to touch them as little as may be, and rather to let them lie upon a table than to hold them in his hand. * "By the time a man can read a woman like a book, he is too old to collect a library" * *******
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Monday, October 03, 2005
Sunday, October 02, 2005
Saturday, October 01, 2005
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