orwell, george

"The essence of being human is that one does not seek perfection,
that one is sometimes willing to commit sins for the sake of loyalty,
that one does not push asceticism to the point where it makes friendly
intercourse impossible, and that one is prepared in the end to be
defeated and broken up by life, which is the inevitable price of
fastening one's love upon other human individuals. No doubt alcohol,
tobacco, and so forth, are things that a saint must avoid, but sainthood is also a thing that human beings must avoid. There is an obvious retort to this, but one should be wary about making it. In this yogi-ridden age, it is too readily assumed that "non-attachment" is not only better than a full acceptance of earthly life, but that the ordinary man only rejects it because it is too difficult: in other words, that the average human being is a failed saint. It is doubtful whether this is true. Many people genuinely do not wish to be saints, and it is probable that some who achieve or aspire to sainthood have never felt much temptation to be human beings. If one could follow it to its psychological roots, one would, I believe, find that the main motive for "non-attachment" is a desire to escape from the pain of living, and above all from love, which, sexual or non-sexual, is hard work."

[g. orwell, "reflections on gandhi"]

cavell, stanley

"I am necessarily the owner of my pain, yet the fact that it is always located in my body is not necessary. This is what Wittgenstein wishes to show--that it is conceivable that I locate it in another's body. That this does not in fact, or literally, happen in our lives means that the fact of our separateness is something that I have to conceive, a task of imagination--that to know your pain I cannot locate it as I locate mine, but I must let it happen to me. My knowledge of you marks me; it is something that I experience, yet I am not present to it...My knowledge of myself is something I find, as on a successful quest; my knowledge of others, of their separateness from me, is something that finds me."

[s. cavell]

wittgenstein, ludwig

"Death is not an event in life: we do not live to experience death. If we take eternity to mean not infinite temporal duration but timelessness, then eternal life belongs to those who live in the present. Our life has no end in just the way in which our visual field has no limits."

[l. wittgenstein, tractatus logico-philosophicus]

roethke, theodore

"What’s madness but nobility of soul
At odds with circumstance?"

[from "In a Dark Time"]

foucault, michel

"Your question is: why am I so interested in politics? But if I were to answer you very simply, I would say this: Why shouldn't I be interested? That is to say, what blindness, what deafness, what density of ideology would have to weigh me down to prevent me from being interested in what is probably the most crucial subject to our existence.... The essence of our life consists, after all, in the political functioning of the society in which we find ourselves."

[m. foucault]

okay okay okay already. yes, i do still draw hearts next to foucault's name in my notebook.

poor pitta

avoid most Rajasic foods: coffee, garlic (!!!), onions, peppers, hot spices...also cigarettes and alcohol, of course.

also bad: sour fruit, bananas, beets, green olives, radish, tomatoes (!), turnips, corn, quinoa (!), rye, black and red lentils, nuts (!!!)...

so many spices!: asafoetida, basil (!!), bay leaf, cayenne, cloves, ginger (!), marjoram, mustard seeds, nutmeg, oregano, paprika, rosemary, sage, savory, tamarind, thyme...(this might be the most difficult part)...

why am i not a vata? they get to eat everything!

kafka, franz

"Oh to be a Red Indian, instantly prepared, and astride one's galloping mount, leaning into the wind, to skim with each fleeting quivering touch over the quivering ground, till one shed the spurs, for there were no spurs, till one flung off the reins, for there were no reins, and could barely see the land unfurl as a smooth-shorn heath before one, now that horse's neck and horse's head were gone."

[F. Kafka, "Longing to Be a Red Indian"]