@ho_pirjolmihaiad
The Blair Witch Project (1999) felt different from any other horror. Three students went into the woods and never came back — only their tapes were found. The marketing was so clever, with fake news and websites, that people actually thought it was real. Made on a tiny budget of around $60,000, it went on to make nearly $250 million worldwide. And honestly, even today, most horror movies don’t hold a candle to this one. 🎩
Book: A short history of decayChapter: Overworked by DreamsWriter: Emil M. Cioran ❤️If we could conserve the energy we lavish in that series of dreams we nightly leave behind us, the mind’s depth and subtlety would reach unimaginable proportions. The scaffolding of a nightmare requires a nervous expenditure more exhausting than the best articulated theoretical construction. How, after waking, begin again the task of aligning ideas when, in our unconscious, we were mixed up with grotesque and marvelous spectacles, we were sailing among the spheres without the shackles of anti-poetic Causality? For hours we were like drunken gods — and suddenly, our open eyes erasing night's infinity, we must resume, in day’s mediocrity, the enterprise of insipid problems, without any of the night’s hallucinations to help us. The glorious and deadly fantasy was all for nothing then; sleep has exhausted us in vain. Waking, another kind of weariness awaits us; after having had just time enough to forget the night’s, we are at grips with the dawn’s.We have labored hours and hours in horizontal immobility without our brain’s deriving the least advantage of its absurd activity. After each night we are emptier: our mysteries and our griefs have leaked away into our dreams. Thus sleep’s labor not only diminishes the power of our thought, but even that of our secrets...
A small passage from what I read today.Book: The Trouble with Being Born 📖 Author: Emil M.Cioran🎩"By what right do you start praying for me? I have no need for intercessors. From a wretch, perhaps I might accept, but from no one else, saint or not. I cannot tolerate others worrying about my salvation; if I fear it and try to escape it, your prayers are nothing but irritating. Take them away from here. Anyway, we do not serve the same gods. If mine are powerless, I have every reason to believe that yours are no better. And even assuming that they are as mighty as you imagine, they would still lack the power to cure me of a fear older than my own memory."Cioran had paid too much suffering for his quests to accept the defiant mercy of a believer. He never forgot the torture inflicted on him by the insomnia of his youth, the nights spent with his forehead pressed against the windowpane, staring into the darkness for hours.---And in another passage:"To my misfortune, I believe in my ideas because I have lived them, felt them, endured them all. I did not write with blood; I wrote with all the tears I never cried." 🖤
My resume about what I read today.Book: The syllogisms of Bitterness Author: Emil M. Cioran🎩"If I would believe in God," he says in a famous passage from The Syllogisms of Bitterness, "I would be able to walk down the street naked." And also in The Syllogisms of Bitterness: "Every belief confers arrogance; those who do not share it appear as defeated and powerless, deserving only pity and disdain. Look at all those who have managed to make God an accomplice to their schemes—the converts, the newly rich of the Absolute."Although Cioran was not a believer, he had a formidable awareness of the demands that faith imposes: "I have such a lofty idea of the obligations that come with being a believer that I would fear to have faith. It seems absurd and ridiculous to invoke God yet behave like the rest of mankind. And yet, that is precisely what happens. It has been a long time since believers ceased to be strange, mysterious, exceptional phenomena. When believers exist, they are like everyone else, as if they do not exist at all."Reading Cioran, I feel him closer to God than those who have made faith into a badge of honor.🌹
One of those books that I will carry with me to the grave."Oblomov sank into thought again. 'Now or never!' Listening to the desperate call of his mind and strength, he realized and measured that he still had some scraps of willpower left. He wondered where to direct himself, what to use that anemic remainder for. After some tormenting thoughts, he dipped the pen, took a book from a corner, and, in an hour, wanted to read, to write, and to rethink everything he hadn't read, written, or thought about in ten years." 🥹-Oblomov, by Ivan Gonvearov(1859)
"When the famous Russian writer Fyodor Dostoevsky [...] was a prisoner in Siberia, far from the world, between four walls and surrounded by endless snow-desolate plains, and asked for help in a letter to his distant family, he only said: "Send me books, books, many books so that my soul does not die!" “He was cold and asked not for fire, he was very thirsty and asked not for water: he asked for books, that is, horizons, that is, stairs to climb to the summit of the spirit and heart." ❤️ - Federico Garcia Lorca - Spanish poet and playwright
there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the averagehuman being to supply any given army on any given dayand the best at murder are those who preach against itand the best at hate are those who preach loveand the best at war finally are those who preach peacethose who preach god, need godthose who preach peace do not have peacethose who preach peace do not have lovebeware the preachersbeware the knowersbeware those who are always reading booksbeware those who either detest povertyor are proud of itbeware those quick to praisefor they need praise in returnbeware those who are quick to censorthey are afraid of what they do not knowbeware those who seek constant crowds forthey are nothing alonebeware the average man the average womanbeware their love, their love is averageseeks averagebut there is genius in their hatredthere is enough genius in their hatred to kill youto kill anybodynot wanting solitudenot understanding solitudethey will attempt to destroy anythingthat differs from their ownnot being able to create artthey will not understand artthey will consider their failure as creatorsonly as a failure of the worldnot being able to love fullythey will believe your love incompleteand then they will hate youand their hatred will be perfectlike a shining diamondlike a knifelike a mountainlike a tigerlike hemlocktheir finest art.-The Genius Of The Crowd, by Charles Bukowski🎩
In real life, we say 'I love you' but in , "White Nights", we say: "I am a dreamer. I know so little of real life that I just can't help re-living such moments as these in my dreams, for such moments are something I have very rarely experienced. I am going to dream about you the whole night, the whole week, the whole year.May your sky always be clear, may your dear smile always be bright and happy, and may you be forever blessed for that moment of bliss and happiness which you gave to another lonely and grateful heart. Isn't such a moment sufficient for the whole of one's life?"📖 White Nights, by Fiodor Dostoyevski In "Twilight of the Idols" (Götzen-Dämmerung), Nietzsche wrote: "Dostoevsky is the only psychologist from whom I have anything to learn. He is one of the happiest accidents of my life."🥹This is the finest tribute I have ever read about Dostoyevski. ❤️
This is one of the most beautiful chapters I have ever read, a true masterpiece of words and emotion.📖 Exercise in Admiration, by Emil Mihai Cioran. "She wasn’t from here... I only met her twice. That’s not much, but the extraordinary isn’t measured in time. She captivated me from the first moment with her absent and estranged air, her whispers (for she didn’t speak), her faltering gestures, her glances that hovered over beings and things, her being like an adorable specter. ‘Who are you? Where do you come from?’—that was the question you could ask her without hesitation. She couldn’t answer, as she was so absorbed in her own mystery or perhaps preferred not to betray it. No one would ever know how she managed to breathe, or what wandering had made her succumb to the magic of breath, or what she was doing among us. What’s certain is that she wasn’t from here, and that she shared in our decadence only out of politeness or some morbid curiosity. Only angels and the incurably ill can inspire a feeling similar to the one you felt in her presence. Fascination, supernatural disturbance!From the very first moment I saw her, I fell in love with her timidity, a unique, unforgettable timidity that gave her the appearance of an exhausted vestal in the service of a clandestine god or a mystic, wracked by longing or an excess of ecstasy, incapable of ever returning to the realities of the world!" ❤️
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