Ego is the central figure of our personal history, based upon the past and looking into the future. Ego is the deepest dream of the Consciousness.
What drew him back was something altogether more personal, to a history where, in the pain and longing of adolescence, he was still standing on the corner of Queen and Albert Streets waiting for someone...
Time stretches and calms, but still we reach, for we belonged then. We want to know. Sometimes that knowledge is painful, or inconvenient, or even damning. But it is essential. It exposes us for what...
We forget all too soon the things we thought we could never forget. We forget the loves and the betrayals alike, forget what we whispered and what we screamed, forget who we were.
The Englishman left months ago, Hana, he’s with the Bedouin or in some English garden with its phlox and shit.
In many ways my life has been rather like a record of the lost and found. Perhaps all lives are like that.
If chained is where you have been, your ams will always bear marks of the shackles. What you have to lose is your story, your own slant. You’ll look at the scars on your arms...
Caucasian”, most of them little realizing that the term and its history are as constructed as anything sold in the fantasy section of a bookstore.These are proven strategies, but I have no interest in them....
The contents of someone’s bookcase are part of his history, like an ancestral portrait.”(About Books; Recoiling, Rereading, Retelling, New York Times, February 22, 1987)
Before I can say I am, I was. Heraclitus and I, prophets of flux, know that the flux is composed of parts that imitate and repeat each other. Am or was, I am cumulative, too....
People say you’re born innocent, but it’s not true. You inherit all kinds of things that you can do nothing about. You inherit your identity, your history, like a birthmark that you can’t wash off....
There’s a phenomenology of being sick, one that depends on temperament, personal history, and the culture which we live in.
The secret of our emotions never lies in the bare object, but in its subtle relations to our own past.
With the sensation that he was passing through the Looking-Glass, Max stared at his father as if he had never seen him before—simultaneously impressed and unnerved at the thought that, after all these years, he...
The beast lives unhistorically; for it ‘goes into’ the present, like a number, without leaving any curious remainder.
Having contact sheets for all sorts of episodes in your life seemed to me intriguing and desirable. So much of my own history is beclouded by time, but a few sharp rays, in the form...
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