I'm a freelance translator from Turkey. I love books, literature, movies, music, photography, art, depth of field, nature, lakes, rivers, sea, trees, butterflies, swans, birds, flowers, cottages, vintage photographs, solitude, daydreams, travelling,... Other places you can find me: sinematik-frailsoul-womenreading mubi-blog-flickr-instagram-lastfm .gr_custom_container_1512637953 { /* customize your Goodreads widget container here*/ border: 1px solid gray; border-radius:10px; padding: 10px 5px 10px 5px; background-color: #FFFFFF; color: #000000; width: 300px } .gr_custom_header_1512637953 { /* customize your Goodreads header here*/ border-bottom: 1px solid gray; width: 100%; margin-bottom: 5px; text-align: center; font-size: 120% } .gr_custom_each_container_1512637953 { /* customize each individual book container here */ width: 100%; clear: both; margin-bottom: 10px; overflow: auto; padding-bottom: 4px; border-bottom: 1px solid #aaa; } .gr_custom_book_container_1512637953 { /* customize your book covers here */ overflow: hidden; height: 60px; float: left; margin-right: 4px; width: 39px; } .gr_custom_author_1512637953 { /* customize your author names here */ font-size: 10px; } .gr_custom_tags_1512637953 { /* customize your tags here */ font-size: 10px; color: gray; } .gr_custom_rating_1512637953 { /* customize your rating stars here */ float: right; } Sera's bookshelf: read The Tobacconist by Robert Seethaler tagged: favorites The Foundation Pit by Andrei Platonov The Midnight Love Feast by Michel Tournier tagged: favorites Montano's Malady by Enrique Vila-Matas Montano Hastalığı edebiyat sevgisi üzerine türler üstü bir kitap. Başka bir yazarın elinde heba olabilecek fikirler Vila-Matas'ın kıvrak üslubu sayesinde defalarca okuma isteği uyandırıyor. Günlükleriyle de bilinen ve edebiyat dünyasında... tagged: favorites The Family of Pascual Duarte by Camilo José Cela Share book reviews and ratings with Sera, and even join a book club on Goodreads.
I dont think things can be treated with that kind of duality. For Japanese who don't think that way, the gods are in the darkness. They may come out into the light at times, but they are usually deep in the forest or mountains. When a holy spot is created, the gods drop down onto it. That is why, in the shrines that are closest to their original form that still exist in Okinawa . . . the image of the god is just a tree or a stone. And such a shrine isn't in a bright, shining place, it's in an overgrown dark area where the silence is deep—a butterfly may flit about, but it's a bit eerie. When I went there . . . it felt as if something were there. This sense of dark awe is the sort of veneration that Japanese have toward certain forests and natural objects.
Hayao Miyazaki, "Totoro Was Not Made as a Nostalgia Piece" in Starting Point: 1979-1996
In today's state of hyperactivity, where boredom is not allowed to emerge, we never reach the state of deep mental relaxation. The information society is an age of heightened mental tension, because the essence of information is surprise and the stimulus it provides. The tsunami of information means that our perceptual apparatus is permanently stimulated. It can no longer enter into contemplation. The tsunami of information fragments our attention. It prevents the contemplative lingering that is essential to narrating and careful listening . . . In the process of digitalization, . . . information acquires an altogether different status. Reality itself takes on the form of information and data. For the most part, we perceive reality in terms of information or through the lens of information. Information is an idea—that is, a re-representation. When reality takes the form of information, the immediate experience of presence withers. When digitalization gives everything the form of information, reality is flattened.
Time has but one reality, the reality of the instant. Otherwise put, time is a reality confined to the instant and suspended between two voids. Although time will no doubt be reborn, it must first die. It cannot transport its being from one instant to another in order to forge a duration. The instant is already solitude . . . It is solitude in its barest metaphysical value. Yet an even more poignant solitude confirms the tragic solitude of the instant: through a sort of creative violence, time limited to the instant isolates us not only from others but even from ourselves, since it breaks with our most cherished past.
yousharknotpass
ellievsbear
vaporwave
blakekathryn
turnnoffyourmind
titsay
