Clear Reflections

....the idea of art as something that induces madness or that it is the proper sphere of the mad is one of the worst blasphemies one can utter....
— Simone Weil, Seventy Letters, Richard Rees (tr.)

     I do not believe that a mediocre painting necessarily deepens self respect more than watching a good movie. Only good movies are so rare. By good movies I do not mean here movies that meet some esoteric standards, but those presenting situations and ideas that induce the spectator to reexamine his life and its purposes. Out of the experience, he may arrive at spontaneous new decisions about himself and his way of life, decisions that awaken in him, or encourage him to persist in, the elusive search for meaning and the widening of his consciousness of freedom.
     Most movies, TV shows and other types of liesure time activities are so planned as to prevent such experiences from taking place. They are devised and prepared by people who do not allow themselves (or are not allowed) any free play of ideas; they are not supposed to have that effect. But short of it, choices among movies, juke boxes, or TV shows are so limited or meaningless that they are pseudo choices. They are so empty or so fixed that they wake no emotional or intellectual participation and cannot serve the need for enriching one's life.
— Bruno Bettelheim, The Informed Heart, p. 91.

     Darling M. you think that I have something to give. That is the wrong way to put it. But I too have a sort of growing inner certainty that there is within me a deposit of pure gold which must be handed on. Only I become more and more convinced, by experience and by observing my contemporaries, that there is no one to receive it.
     It is indivisible, and whatever is added to it becomes part of it. And as it grows it becomes more compact. I cannot distribute it piecemeal.
     To receive it calls for an effort. And effort is so fatiguing!
     Some people feel in a confused way that there is something. But once they have made a few polite remarks about my intelligence their conscience is clear. After which, they listen to me or read me with the same hurried attention which they give to everything, making up their minds definitely about each separate little hint of an idea as soon as it appears: "I agree with this," "I don't agree with that," "this is marvelous," "that is completely idiotic" (the latter antithesis comes from my chief). In the end they say: "Very interesting," and pass on to something else. They have avoided fatigue.
     What else can one expect? I am convinced that the most fervent Christians among them don't concentrate their attention much more when they are praying or reading the Gospel.
     Why imagine it is better elsewhere? I have seen some of those elsewheres.
     As for posterity, before there is a generation with muscle and power of thought the books and manuscripts of our day will surely have disappeared.
     This does not distress me at all. The mine of gold is inexhaustible.
— Simone Weil, Seventy Letters, Richard Rees (tr.), p.196-197.

Come here, my dear, good, beautiful doggie, and smell this excellent perfume which comes from the best perfumer of Paris.
     And the dog, wagging his tail which I believe, is that poor creature's way of laughing and smiling, came up and put his curious nose on the uncorked bottle. Then, suddenly, he backed away in terror, barking at me reproachfully.
     "Ah miserable dog, if I had offered a package of excrement you would have sniffed at it with delight and perhaps gobbled it up. In this you resemble the public which should never be offered delicate perfumes that infuriate them, but only carefully selected garbage."
— Charles Baudelaire, from VIII: "The Dog and the Scent-Bottle," in Paris Spleen, Louise Varèse (tr.), p. 11.

Do not seek fame. Do not make plans. Do not be absorbed by activities. Do not think that you know. Be aware of all that is and dwell in the infinite. Wander where there is no path. Be all that heaven gave you, but act as though you have received nothing. Be empty, that is all.
     The mind of a perfect man is like a mirror. It reflects but does not hold. Therefore, the perfect man can act without effort.
— Chuang Tzu: Inner Chapters, Gia-Fu Feng & Jand English Trs.), p. 159, from Chapter 7, "The Sage King."

If there is no other, there is no I. If there is no I, there is no one to perceive. This is close to the truth, but we do not know why. There must be some primal force, but we cannot discover any proof. I believe it acts, but I cannot see it. I can feel it, but it has no form.
     The hundred joints, nine openings, and six organs all function together. Which part do you prefer? Do you like them all equally, or do you have a favorite? Are they not all servants? Can they keep order among themselves, or do they take turns being masters and servants? It  may be that there is indeed a true master. Whether I really feel his existence or not has nothing to do with the way it is. Once a man is given a body it works naturally as long as it lasts. It carries on through hardship and ease and, like a galloping horse, nothing can stop it. Isn't it sad? All through life one toils and sweats, never seeing any result. Weary and exhausted, man has no place to rest his bones. Isn't it a pity? One may say, "There is no death." What good does that do? When the body decays, so does the mind. Is this not a great sorrow? Is life really this absurd? Am I the only one who sees the absurdity? Don't others see it too? If one is true to one's self and follows its teaching, who needs be without a teacher? Not only those who are experienced and wise may have a teacher, the fools have theirs too. When those who are not true to themselves try to choose between right and wrong, it is as if they set off for Yueh today and arrived yesterday. That would be making what does not exist, exist....
     Words are not just blown air. They have a meaning. If you are not sure what you are talking about, are you saying anything, or are you saying nothing? Words seem different from the chirping of birds. Is there a difference, or isn't there? How can Tao be so obscure and yet admit of truth and falsehood? How can words be so obscure and yet admit of right and wrong? How can Tao cease to exist? How can words not be heard?
— Chuang Tzu: Inner Chapters, Gia-Fu Feng & Jane English (trs.), from Chapter 2, "The Equality of All Things," pp. 25-26.