The past is never dead. It's not even past.
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@chughtai
The past is never dead. It's not even past.
William Faulkner, Requiem for a Nun, 1951
Léon Spilliaert, Trestle (L’estacade), 1907
The world has dyed black the eyebrow of the Eed
Hafez, ~14th century
It's your distracted, lovelorn heart That asks these questions constantly.
Hafez, For years my heart inquired of me, ~14th century
It is a strange science whose most telling assertions are its most tremulously based, in which to get somewhere with the matter at hand is to intensify the suspicion, both your own and that of others, that you are not quite getting it right. But that, along with plaguing subtle people with obtuse questions, is what being an ethnographer is like.
Clifford Geertz, The Interpretation of Cultures, 1973
Ethnography is invaded by heteroglossia.
James Clifford, On Ethnographic Authority, 1983
The time which we have at our disposal every day is elastic; the passions that we feel expand it, those that we inspire contract it; and habit fills up what remains.
Marcel Proust, In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flowers, 1919
Georges Seurat, Man Reading, 1884
it is one thing to remember, another to know.
Seneca, Epistulae ad Lucilium XXXIII, 65 AD
To remember everything is a form of madness.
Brian Friel, Translations, 1980
The world is everything that is the case.
Ludwig Wittgenstein, Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, 1922
And all the marvels that our eyes behold Are pictures. There has happened some event For each of them, and this they represent— Our lives are like a tale that has been told.
Al-Ma'arri, Diwan, c. 11th century
So have they not traveled through the earth and have hearts by which to reason and ears by which to hear? For indeed, it is not eyes that are blinded, but blinded are the hearts which are within the breasts.
Al-Qur'an 22:46
قطرے میں دجلہ دکھائی نہ دے اور جزو میں کل کھیل لڑکوں کا ہوا دیدۂ بینا نہ ہوا a part contains the whole as the drop a river and unconcealment of the world a child’s play
Mirza Ghalib, Verse from a Ghazal written in a letter dated 18 June ~1854
From childhood’s hour I have not been As others were—I have not seen As others saw—
Edgar Allan Poe, Alone, 1829
Otto Steinert, Sonnenuntergang in Hirtshals, 1964
April Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
Edna St. Vincent Millay, Spring, Second April (1935)