‘Modern humanity’s knowledge of its own nature has leaped forward, along with our understanding of the earth and the structure of the universe. Whereas the ancients had powerful intuitions and insights, we have scientific facts. Such developments, scientific and material, are bound to have a transforming effect and touch all aspects of our lives.
It therefore seems strange to me that only religion has continued to transmit the same teachings largely unaltered, in many cases, for millennia. Only religion claims to have golden rules that can withstand scientific scrutiny. Certainly, there are some arguments in religion’s favour. Religious teachings provide continuity amid change and a sense of history. They have survived past challenges and stood the test of time. Furthermore, the human mind and its awareness of spiritual values have remained constant.
These are all valid arguments for traditional religious belief and practice. Since I belong to the 79th generation of an ancient Shinto tradition, it is quite understandable that I attach great importance to tradition and continuity. However, I also believe that religious expressions, that is to say the language and form of religion, must adapt and evolve. There is now so much exchange of ideas between cultures and faiths that traditional forms can no longer be justified on grounds of tradition alone. Social and cultural changes have been so profound that the old forms often lack relevance to modern men and women. Therefore, we should not hesitate to make up for what we lack and to improve what we need to improve. To believe that only the language and form of two millennia ago are valid for today is pure bigotry and dogmatism, and far removed from any kind of spiritual awareness.’
[Motohisa Yamakage, The Essence of Shinto. Japan’s Spiritual Heart, p. 20-21.]
Uitgelezen
Uitgelezen 77
‘What action did Bloom make on their arrival at their destination?
At the housesteps of the 4th of the equidifferent uneven numbers, number 7 Eccles street, he inserted his hand mechanically into the back pocket of his trousers to obtain his latchkey.
Was it there?
It was in the corresponding pocket of the trousers which he had worn on the day but one proceeding.
Why was he doubly irritated?
Because he had forgotten and because he remembered that he had reminded himself twice not to forget.
What were then the alternatives before the, premeditatedly (respectively) and inadvertently, keyless couple?
To enter or not to enter. To knock or not to knock.
Blooms decision?
A stratagem. Resting his feet on the dwarf wall, he climbed over the area railings, compressed his hat on his head, grasped two points at the lower union of rails and stiles, lowered his body gradually by its length of five feet ten inches of the area pavement, and allowed his body to move freely in space by separating himself from the railings and crouching in preparation for the impact of the fall.’
[James Joyce, Ulysses, p.779.]
Uitgelezen 76
‘Moet u horen, ik ben industrieel, journalist, politicus, alles wat u wilt, kortom, ik ben gewend aan rekenen, omstandigheden, incalculeren en schipperen met beperkte kansen. Juist om die reden moet ik u zeggen, en dat is de enige raad die ik u geef voor u het bewind op zich neemt: reken niet en kijk niet om. Zodra u eenmaal omkijkt, verandert u in een huilende zuil zoals de vrouw van Lot. Ik ben rede en getal: als ik de blik naar boven richt, wil ik me verliezen in waanzin en eindeloosheid. Al wat is, zinkt onherroepelijk uit de chaos van de oneindigheid door het getal in het niets, iedere groet kracht verzet zich tegen deze geleidelijke val, iedere grootheid wil onmetelijk worden. De kracht die niet buiten haar oude oevers treedt, is verloren. U hebt de macht gekregen om onmetelijke dingen te volbrengen: bent u haar waardig of wilt u er maar wat mee knoeien? Als man uit de praktijk kan ik u zeggen: denk aan krankzinnige en mateloze daden, aan proporties zonder weerga, aan absurde records van menselijk kunnen… de werkelijkheid zal u vijftig tot tachtig procent van ieder groots plan ontnemen, maar wat overblijft, moet nog altijd enorm zijn. Streef naar het onmogelijke, om zo tenminste een nog onbekende mogelijkheid te verwezenlijken. U weet wat een groot goed het experiment is, goed zo, want wat alle heersers ter wereld het meest vrezen, is dat ze de dingen eens anders, omgekeerd, op nog nooit vertoonde wijze zouden moeten doen… er bestaat niets conservatievers dan de regerende macht. U bent de eerste mens ter wereld die de wereld als zijn laboratorium kan beschouwen. Dat is de uiterste verzoeking op de top van de berg… ik geef je dat alles daarbeneden niet opdat je de geneugten van je macht zou smaken, maar het word je gegeven om het te veroveren, het om te vormen en er iets beters van te maken dan deze ellendige, barbaarse wereld. De wereld heeft steeds opnieuw een schepper nodig… echter, een schepper die niet ook absoluut heer en meester is, is niet meer dan een dwaas. Uw gedachten zullen bevelen zijn, uw dromen historische omwentelingen en al zou u niets anders oprichten dan uw eigen gedenkteken, het is het waard. Neem dat wat van u is.
En nu moeten we gaan, ze wachten op ons.’
[Karel ?apek, Karaktiet, p. 311-312.]
Uitgelezen 75
‘If you lose your ego, you lose the thread of that narrative you call your Self. Humans, however, can’t live very long without some sense of a continuing story. Such stories go beyond the limited rational system (or the systematic rationality) with which you surround yourself; they are crucial keys to sharing time-experience with others.
Now a narrative is a story, not logic, nor ethics, nor philosophy. It is a dream you keep having, whether you realize it or not. Just as surely as you breathe, you go on ceaselessly dreaming your story. And in these stories you wear two faces. You are simultaneously subject and object. You are the whole and you are a part. You are real and you are shadow. “Storyteller” and at the same time “character”. It is through such multilayering of roles in our stories that we heal the loneliness of being an isolated individual in the world.
Yet without a proper ego, nobody can create a personal narrative, any more than you can drive a car without an engine, or cast a shadow without a real physical object. But once you’ve consigned your ego to someone else, where on earth do you go from there?
At this point you receive a new narrative from the person to whom you have entrusted your ego. You’ve handed over the real thing, so what comes back instead is a shadow. And once you ego has merged with another ego, your narrative will necessarily take on the narrative created by that other ego.’
[Haruki Murakami, Underground, The Tokyo Gas Attack and the Japanese Psyche, p. 201.]
Uitgelezen 74
‘De zon was zwart en de dood bloosde van levenssappen.
Dat wilde ik dansen.
Daar wilde ik een ballet over maken.
Nu dans ik het, in de glitterende nachtclubs van Warschau en morgen, als ik de openingsact van de beurs Venus in the City doe, in Berlijn.
Als ik vlak voor de donkerslag mijn slip losknoop – je moet een slip met koordjes hebben, niet een broekje waar je je uit moet wurmen – en mijn geschiedenis wijdbeens aan het publiek toon, zien ze niet de begeerde leemte maar het zwart van Tsjernobyl. Het zwart van die voorjaarsdagen, het zwart van de doodblozende appel gaat over in het zwart van de black out. Het zwart dat er altijd is, overal, in ieder van ons.
Tsjernobyl. Zwarte zon. Zwarte zang.
Zwart van Malevitsj.’
[Donald Niedekker, Oksana, p. 10.]
Uitgelezen 73
‘It is possible to learn from a teacher whose identity is completely unknown to the student. This may sound unbelievable, so prepare yourself for something strange. The teacher may be a consciousness that may or may not even reside in a living body. The teacher may have died and yet not have been reborn. Or, the teacher may at present be a child who, in a past life, attained some sort of mastery. It may be that the teacher had a strong connection with the student but passed on. Or, the teacher may have had no connection in this life but, rather, in past lives. Or, the connection may even be much less fathomable. The student may not even be consciously aware of being taught through ‘spirit’. Such an awareness, however, can make the process more efficient. If the instruction is coming, for example, through dreams (as mine most often does), the student can do various things to increase the likelihood that contact will be made and that what is received is consciously retained upon awakening. Future contacts can be initiated by consciously desiring the contact to be made. Retention can be increased by an awareness that an important process is taking place. The knowledge that you are being helped in spirit adds an extra keenness to your receptivity.’
[Robert Chuckrow, The Tai Chi Book. Refining and enjoying a lifetime of practice, p. 109.]