Defining is maligning
What is only names and titles is not even a skeleton of the matter, and as one experiences each thing, it is a synthesis that happens in the cooperating mind, the action that is a part of learning is the reading of them.
No way is perfect for me, ideally i'd do one at a time, but the idea of not having the rest until completion, too dangerous, it's a dangling over an abyss sensation to only be reading one at a time.
And the cult of completing is not to infect the brain as some sort of necessary thing, I favor the ditch stuffy old rationale and embroil yourself in an innovative moving at the pace of schizophrenia method a doubling which then results in the calm and soothing uniform pattern that for normies would be achieved in a normal way.
Normal is amongst other things having other things in one's life which command a whole section in your thinking.
When Literature becomes the main element, with music as a accompaniment, when melodrama that should have stayed within a created story is being enacted on the global stage in the abnormal reader, that is a clue to be done with most things that offered cumulatively shards and pieces of normal, one transports their mind into a maximal embracing, and living of the main thing, you need to work at the perfect way, the perfect way is the way that never has been done yet, but the idea of it exists clear as day in the mind, or maybe mind isn't the best term here, something more primal, instinctual, further removed by classical logic and other spiderweb of ways of thinking.
There is no time for such dry and abstract volumes which would only begin to profit me years from beginning a proper approach to them. My Group stands for the pick of the Litter, additions ought to be fit in like Max Stirner, La Rochefoucauld and all the other Moralists that usually wrote shimmering maxims. Joseph Frank's incredible bio on Dostoevsky, and a few key works that I fail to say, and fail I must because to reach perfection would be including all I mean to.
Perfection as abomination, it's good to strive after it, it's the pristine dream which nourishes us, but to make it plain is like claiming that your very words are perfect.
So you affirm the sanctity of struggle, the limitless value of that which enlarges your visions, you mourn the human race at it's twilight, by the best roll call of greatest hits you could, from what has been preserved in words, I see a future where it's like Fahrenheit 451, that books will be illegal, or 1984 when only state sponsored books are allowed. I think that so as to squeeze more importance out of them than if I were not to think of it. So it matters not if things aren't that bleak or a helluva lot more bleak.
In bliss the mortal coil withers, while the spirit soars, above it all, not out of value judgments, but in the sense of can't stand the heat get out of the kitchen.
No way is perfect for me, ideally i'd do one at a time, but the idea of not having the rest until completion, too dangerous, it's a dangling over an abyss sensation to only be reading one at a time.
And the cult of completing is not to infect the brain as some sort of necessary thing, I favor the ditch stuffy old rationale and embroil yourself in an innovative moving at the pace of schizophrenia method a doubling which then results in the calm and soothing uniform pattern that for normies would be achieved in a normal way.
Normal is amongst other things having other things in one's life which command a whole section in your thinking.
When Literature becomes the main element, with music as a accompaniment, when melodrama that should have stayed within a created story is being enacted on the global stage in the abnormal reader, that is a clue to be done with most things that offered cumulatively shards and pieces of normal, one transports their mind into a maximal embracing, and living of the main thing, you need to work at the perfect way, the perfect way is the way that never has been done yet, but the idea of it exists clear as day in the mind, or maybe mind isn't the best term here, something more primal, instinctual, further removed by classical logic and other spiderweb of ways of thinking.
There is no time for such dry and abstract volumes which would only begin to profit me years from beginning a proper approach to them. My Group stands for the pick of the Litter, additions ought to be fit in like Max Stirner, La Rochefoucauld and all the other Moralists that usually wrote shimmering maxims. Joseph Frank's incredible bio on Dostoevsky, and a few key works that I fail to say, and fail I must because to reach perfection would be including all I mean to.
Perfection as abomination, it's good to strive after it, it's the pristine dream which nourishes us, but to make it plain is like claiming that your very words are perfect.
So you affirm the sanctity of struggle, the limitless value of that which enlarges your visions, you mourn the human race at it's twilight, by the best roll call of greatest hits you could, from what has been preserved in words, I see a future where it's like Fahrenheit 451, that books will be illegal, or 1984 when only state sponsored books are allowed. I think that so as to squeeze more importance out of them than if I were not to think of it. So it matters not if things aren't that bleak or a helluva lot more bleak.
In bliss the mortal coil withers, while the spirit soars, above it all, not out of value judgments, but in the sense of can't stand the heat get out of the kitchen.
