Quote of the Day
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To know oneself is to study oneself in action with another person.
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Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret., Digital Diaries by Emily Giffin, Oh, the Places You’ll Go! by Dr. Seuss, The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky, She’s Come Undone by Wally Lamb
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What scents or places or experiences provide your own triggers?
I’m
inspired by odors that touch me, that shock me, that make me nostalgic,
that remind me of other people, other places. Inspiration is
everywhere—the smells of childhood, of life. A blinding white shirt in
full sun, an Indian dance, steaming rice, bewitching incense drifting
through a Malaysian temple. Ten years later, that incense inspired
L’Ether de IUNX. To me, incense evokes uplifting prayer; it’s pure,
profound, intoxicating. I like everything that burns: wood, resins,
dried leaves, hot ashes, barbeques, the smell of earth and sun-warmed
herbs.
Like a vocabulary of emotions, perfume becomes a living language for
me. Educating one’s sense of smell means becoming more aware, looking at
things differently, pausing where others hurry past. I write down my
impressions and keep everything I come across in my travels. In Mali, I
broke the bark of a yellow wood that tasted of quince, collected cooked
seeds, burned rope; in Japan, I found soft rubber that smelled of
Christmas and a neon pink ribbon that smelled like dolls; in Mexico,
driftwood, fresh cactus and black corn. Large cities are kaleidoscopes
of odors. Istanbul smells of roses and dust, New York of laundry fumes
and cinnamon. Paris is electric heaters, fresh bread and wet sidewalks.
Katmandu is dry woods and cucumber. Tokyo is grilled food, metal and
plastic.
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It is easy to specify the individual objects of admiration in these grand scenes; but it is not possible to give an adequate idea of the higher feelings of wonder, astonishment, and devotion, which fill and elevate the mind.
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The words of others are mistakes of our hearing, shipwrecks of our understanding. How confidently we believe in our meanings of other people’s words. We hear death in words they speak to express sensual bliss. We read sensuality and life in words they drop from their lips without the slightest intention of being profound.
The voice of brooks that you interpret, pure explicator…the voice of trees whose rustling means what we say it means…ah, my unknown love, this is all just us and our fantasies, all ash, trickling down the bars of our cell!