We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges.
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We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges.
Weak people believe what is forced on them. Strong people what they wish to believe, forcing that to be real.
There is no magic. There is only knowledge, more or less hidden.
No intellect is needed to see those figures who wait beyond the void of death. Every child is aware of them, blazing with glories dark or bright, wrapped in authority older than the universe. They are the stuff of our earliest dreams, as of our dying visions. Rightly we feel our lives guided by them, and rightly too we feel how little we matter to them, the builders of the unimaginable, the fighters of wars beyond the totality of existence.
Hope is a psychological mechanism unaffected by external realities.
No man lives long when his dreams die.