#Jean Paul satre
You're hot because you appreciate Sartre.
Ayee hell yeah we love Satre on this blog
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ἡμεῖς δὲ πρὸ τοῦ μὲν ᾠόμεθα, νῦν δ᾽ ἠπορήκαμεν.
‘We who once had understood, have now become perplexed’ ~ Plato, Sophists, 244a (trans. Anon)
This quote appeared in the book I’m currently reading, At the Existentialist Cafe by Sarah Bakewell. I’m not sure why I like this quote so much, but it’s stuck with me.
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“One can not postulate a man who produces a paper-cutter but does not know what it is used for. Therefore, let us say that, for the paper-cutter, essence—that is, the ensemble of both the production routines and the properties which enable it to be both produced and defined— precedes existence”
Jean Paul Satre
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Does anyone else on my tumblr read into phenomenology? Or has seen/read the play No Exit by Jean Paul Satre? I’ve been trying to find someone to talk about it with for months n I never even thought to ask tumblr
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Hi! Once you get this, you have to say five things you like about yourself publicly, then send to ten of your favourite followers! ❤ (hhhhh i know we follow each other on ur main blog, but i wasnt sure which to send this to ahahaha bark bark im sorry for being a clown)
hi yasuuuuu (HFDH its totally cool for u to message me on main or side, it don’t matter to me !)
uhhhh i like my art, i think i draw pretty efficiently and it usually looks pretty damn good
i like my character writing/building! they usually feel pretty sound to me!
i like my sense for aesthetics?? im picky and plucky abt everything but i think whatever the hell my brain finds pretty/attractive/nice to look at is pretty damn solid
i like ! my handwriting! it’s a weird segoe-script/cursive scribble but i think it’s nice to look at ! it’s a pain to read at times but at least it’s pretty ❤️
i like my personality ? or like. the energy i give off ! Perhaps™ I Am A Narcissist, but i think it’s very fun to be perceived sometimes bc i think i can come off as a little offbeat/eccentric — it’s just fun to see where ppl look at things and go ‘oh its vy!’
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one of my favorite things about philosophy is that people will ask questions or come up with a new idea and sometimes not get a response, or someone who doubts their explanations for thousands of years, creating a conversation spanning throughout the existence of humanity
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„Etwas beginnt, um zu enden: das Abenteuer lässt sich nicht verlängern; nur durch seinen Tod hat es einen Sinn. Auf diesen Tod, der vielleicht auch mein eigener sein wird werde ich unwiederruflich hingetrieben.“
- Der Ekel, Jean-Paul Satre
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No necesito hacer frases. Escribo para poner en claro ciertas circunstancias. Desconfiar de la literatura. Hay que escribirlo todo al correr de la pluma; sin buscar las palabras.
Jean Paul Sartre, La náusea.
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Michael’s inspiration for ‘The Good Place’ as Hell.
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"You might think that you are guided by moral laws... or that you act in certain ways because of your psychological make-up or past experiences, or because of what is happening around you. These factors can play a role, but the hole mixture merely adds up to the 'situation' out of which you must act. Even if the situation is unbearable... you are still free to decide what to make of it in mind and deed. Starting from where you are now, you choose. And in choosing, you also choose who you will be."
~ Sarah Bakewell, At The Existentialist Cafe
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Es ist unmöglich, das Licht richtig zu würdigen, ohne das Dunkle zu kennen.
- Jean-Paul Sartre -
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Vergine, L., 2000. Body art and performance : the body as language, Milan : London: Skira Editore ; Thames & Hudson [distributor].
Theory on the body as language. I must admit I didn’t understand half of what this book was going on about but whoever had this book last from the library highlighted some interesting points in the book that caught my eye. From my understanding, one can use distance of an object/ artwork to affect the intimacy felt between the viewer and the artist, which I hadn’t thought of before. And according to the philosopher Maurice Merleau-Ponty, “individuals are involved, not apart from the complex of phenomena, and are engaged in affecting and being affected by each other and by the world around them”.
“I am and I must also go beyond as I move towards what I must become” - Jean-Paul Satre. Is he referring to incarnation? Or gaining a greater awareness for our place as humans in the cycle of nature/ eco-system full of complex organisms.
The book contains lots of great reference images to performance artists.
My favourites include Valentina Berdainone, sequences from film “Urbana” 1973 looking at how states turn into disorder and disarray. A process that can last any duration up to infinity. She uses the hand as it helps us make sense of our surroundings - we see with our hands I guess - in motions that are what she calls happenings and knowledge. I like as simple movements varied by speed and energy can communicate a story based on how we read body language.
Finger Gloves 1972 Rebecca Horn
Distances herself from the objects she tries to pick up, she can still grasp, touch, feel.
Enrico Job Bodymap 1974
The artist has pencilled out his body into a flat object, a splay of skin, comprising of 1,000 square photographs which have been enlarged to create a giant copy of himself. The intention was to reduce a living thing to a single dimension. It’s quite oppressive which I quite like, in a way god like due to it’s size.
Books that could be considered Dark Academia or that a person in a Dark Academia work might read
I wanted to create a mixed list of books I’ve read that I think could either be considered dark academia or might be read by a dark academic. I noticed a lot of lists were kind of the same/lacked POC or women writers so I wanted to attempt to remedy that. The list is very long, but obviously I have not read everything (for example I notice the list is severely lacking in poetry because I have not read much poetry, admittedly), so if you have any in mind that I missed please comment! Spread the knowledge! Happy reading!
Another Country by James Baldwin
Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh
The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde
The Secret History by Donna Tartt (obviously)
Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe
One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marqeuz
Maurice by E.M. Forster
The Odyssey by Homer
The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
Selected Poems by Langston Hughes
Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin
Beloved by Toni Morrison
Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Ulysses by James Joyce
Lolita by Vladimir Nabakov
The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner
Pale Fire by Vladimir Nabakov
East of Eden by John Steinbeck
The Complete Stories by Flannery O’Connor
Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackery
Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens
A Separate Peace by John Knowles
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou
The House of the Spirits by Isabel Allende
Native Son by Richard Wright
Franny and Zooey by J.D. Salinger
The Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers
The Glass Menagerie by Tennessee Williams
Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf
HERmione by H.D.
Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert
The Awakening by Kate Chopin
Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy
Notes from Underground by Fyodor Dostoevsky
Eva Luna by Isabel Allende
Great Expectations by Charles Dickens
Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte
The Well of Loneliness by Radclyffe Hall
The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger
Goodbye to Berlin by Christopher Isherwood
Quicksand by Nella Larsen
Collected Poems by Sylvia Plath
Orlando by Virginia Woolf
Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston
Oranges are Not the Only Fruit by Jeanette Winterson
Going to Meet the Man by James Baldwin
Passing by Nella Larsen
The Trial by Franz Kafka
The Garden Party and Other Stories by Katherine Mansfield
Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce
The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison
Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison
Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Color Purple by Alice Walker
Dubliners by James Joyce
Chronicle of a Death Foretold by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Zami: A New Spelling of My Name by Audre Lorde
Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
Annie John by Jamaica Kincaid
Memoirs of a Dutiful Daughter by Simone de Beauvoir
The Waves by Virginia Woolf
Black Boy by Richard Wright
Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison
The Diaries of Anais Nin
A Raisin in the Sun by Lorraine Hansberry
Go Tell it on the Mountain by James Baldwin
Jude the Obscure by Thomas Hardy
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte
Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke
The Good Soldier by Ford Maddox Ford
The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan
To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf
The Woman Warrior by Maxine Hong Kingston
The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka
Sula by Toni Morrison
The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton
The Fire Next Time by James Baldwin
A Doll’s House by Henrik Ibsen
The House of Mirth by Edith Wharton
The Complete Poems by Sappho
Little Women by Lousia May Alcott
A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway
No Exit by Jean-Paul Satre
The Return of the Native by Thomas Hardy
A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith
Tess of the D’Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy
Waiting for Godot by Samuel Beckett
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead by Tom Stoppard
A Room with a View by E.M. Forster
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My dude, now you also have to expose yourself: top 5 books / authors
(you can choose, do one or the other... or both!)
sorry i didnt see this til now! ima do both xx
top 5 books (this is hard af but i'll just go with what i feel have influenced me the most).
1. nausea - jean paul satre
2. for whom the bell tolls - ernest hemingway (but i could have picked any of his tbh)
3. the outsider - albert camus
4. the canterbury tales - chaucer (even though i'm annoyed because the version i have chopped out the whole tale of melibeus so :/)
5. the bell jar - sylvia plath
(bonus my childhood by gorky and bonus bonus the woman destroyed by simone de beauvoir)
1. ernest hemingway - ngl i think i've only got the garden of eden to finish and then i've read all of his stuff
2. mikhail bulgakov
3. jean paul satre
4. albert camus
5. fyodor dostoyevsky
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At this very moment, it's frightful, if I exist, it is because I am horrified at existing. I am the one who pulls myself from the nothingness to which I aspire. ~Jean Paul Satre Nausea https://www.instagram.com/p/CMqmFpsjJn6vY8BEMpma-nn59b8_De9-9tJNM40/?igshid=16aga94t20mrj
Clarice Lispector’s “The Passion According to G.H.” Review
The literature of horror is mostly a mish-mash of monsters, murderer and maniacs. The terror is external, lurking behind a dark corner, in a cemetery, or inside a gloomy castle. The essence of this terror is the encounter with the other, and the less well-defined this otherness, the greater the fright. H.P. Lovecraft (who feared the other as a part of a deeply-ingrained worldview, not just his writer's craft) wisely realized that he needed to give readers a glimpse of the monstrosity - but usually no more so than a glimpse. He grasped that the darkest terror came form the external evil whose reality is unquestioned, but whose parameters are undefined.
But the purest form of horror story requires no monster or evil adversary. You might call this the existential horror tale, and it establishes its distinctive form of dread from the narrator's inner reality. This type of horror even possesses its own philosophical pedigree, as outlined in works such as Kierkegaard's The Concept of Dread, Miguel de Unamuno's The Tragic Sense of Life and Heidegger's Being and Time. But heightened moods of existential horror are especially well-suited for storytelling, and this literary tradition, first given breadth and depth with Dostoevsky, can be traced in various dark modernist novels (Knut Hamsun's Hunger, David Markson's Wittgenstein's Mistress, Thomas Bernhard's Frost Flann O'Brien's The Third Policeman, etc.). Those example notwithstanding, existential horror finds its most complete expression in Jean-Paul Satre's masterful work Nausea (1938), whose protagonist Roquentin loathes virtually everything he experiences. The state of abhorrence is the defining quality of his being.
Yet Satre's Nausea was surpassed, at least in terms of strangeness and sinister ambiance, by avant-garde Brazilian author Clarice Lispector, in her 1964 novel The Passion According to G.H. - published, in an odd coincidence, at almost the same moment that Satre declined the Nobel Prize in literature. Lispector takes the various ingredients of the existential horror novel, and pushes them to a transcendent extreme.
Like any good horror writer, Lispector knows that the early stages of the story must lull the reader into a sense of complacency - indeed, the slower the pace, the more frightening the later shocks. But no novel you've ever read starts at a slower pace than The Passion According to G.H.. For page after page, Lispector provides no factual information - no names, no places, no scenery, no physical features of the characters, no plants, no animals, nothing. Instead out author merely establishes a psychological state. You will seek in vain for a single particular noun in the first ten pages - even Joyce at his most elusive gives you more to grab on to than Ms. Lispector.
"I am the horror in the face of things," our unnamed narrator proclaims. These and other subsequent statements not only avoid specificity, but frequently pose self-cancelling paradoxes: "Each moment of finding is getting lost," "All sudden understanding is finally the revelation of an acute incomprehension." Even at this early stage in Lispector's novel, we have already entered into that contradictory realm of spirituality, familiar to us from Taoism and Zen and other systems of mystical anti-logic; and this tone of metaphysical leaping beyond the known will only get amplified in the chapters ahead.
Finally on page 13, our author obliges us with a single fact: the narrator mentions a previous career as a sculptor. On page 15, we are given a second clue - the narrator mentions the existence of a house maid's room. On page 18, we hit the jackpot, we learn the narrator in a woman. Perhaps at this rate, we might even learn, by the novel's conclusion, the narrator's name? Don't get your hopes up; that's asking for too much. But at least we are told her initials: G.H.
G.H. may still be an enigma to us, but she is clearly in a state of acute psychological crisis. "I'm searching, I'm searching," she announces at the novel outset, "I'm trying to understand." We gradually realize that a single event is responsible for her existential horror.
The day prior, G.H. walked out of her living room and entered the maid's quarters (We are told the maid's name - Janair. It is the only character's name mentioned in the entire novel.) Janair has resigned, and now G.H. intends to clean up the servant's room, making it suitable for its resident. She expects to find a mess of newspapers, dirk and junk, but the room in surprising spotless...with tow exceptions. A clumsy mural has been sketched with a piece of charcoal, and it features a naked man, a naked woman and a dog. Be an even more disturbing surprise is waiting inside the wardrobe.
Here G.H. encounters a fat cockroach. At this juncture, readers are forty pages into the book, but they have already arrived at the dramatic high point of the story. The rest of the novel revolves around the cockroach incident and its aftermath. The basic facts are simple enough to relate. The roach tries to get out of the wardrobe, and G.H. slams the door on it. The roach ruptures and white puss oozes out of its cracked carapace. A dark existential horror descends upon G.H.
The essence of this horror is not the disgusting nature of the cockroach, but rather our narrator's realization that she shares an affinity with the creature. "I'd looked at the living roach and was discovering inside it the identity of my deepest life." The realization cuts even deeper - G.H. discover her basic oneness with the entire universe. In other contexts, this comprehension would precipitate a kind of spiritual bliss, but in this particular context, our narrator is unnerved - because her entry point into universal alignment comes via a disgusting pus-oozing bug.
Somehow Clarice Lispector is able to stretch out this denouement for more than one hundred pages. Our narrator, previously tight-lipped about details, now grows loquacious in discussing cockroaches. We learn of their evolution, their habits, their anatomy. G.H. even speculates about the taste of the cockroach. "Would its eye be salty? If I touched them - since I was gradually getting more and more unclean - if I touched them with my mouth, would they taste salty?"
But once she begins mediating on the possibility of tasting the cockroach, she realizes that she must taste the cockroach. What better way to establish her identification with the universe at large, and the roach at hand, then to assimilate its matter into her own?
Lispector deserves credit for building superstructures of narrative on this premise, while avoid all its risks. In the hands of another writer, this story would collapse into puerile humor, or come across as campy and cartoonish. Yet Lispector not only holds on to the terror of G.H.'s encounter, but turns it into a meditation on spiritual and philosophical matters.
Our narrator is seeking nothing less than salvation in these pages. Her encounter in the maid's room forces her to confront her human condition and, in Lispector's words, "the human condition is the passion of Christ." The biblical language is pervasive here, and the ingestion of the cockroach takes on the symbolic weight of an act of transubstantiation. And though authors often rely on moments of this sort in their stories, describing inspired epiphanies that offer redemption to a fallen protagonist, few have gone quite this far. Not even Kafka managed to find so much revelation in the physiology of a cockroach.
The Passion According to G.H. is a strange, disturbing novel. And though Lispector makes some attempt to resolve its issues, the essence of this story is to resist closure. At one point, our narrator announces: "The explanation of an enigma is the repetition of the enigma." That aphorism could serve as a summary of this entire novel, and to some extent Lispector's oeuvre as a whole.
The story is told of a young female fan of Lispector's work who demanded a face-to-face meeting with the writer. The author obliged, but when the admiring reader arrived, Lispector merely sat silently and stared intently at the visitor until the latter fled in dismay. She had expected a life-changing encounter, and had perhaps had one, but it was wrapped with a dose of mystery and terror that she found too unsettling to endure. That's exactly what you will find in the pages of The Passion According to G.H. You may want to flee from it, but I doubt you will forget it. Nor will you find any other author who can deliver this repetition of the enigma with such force and conviction.
He Works with collections. He was asked to pick a piece of art from national museum and talk about it. In 2005, he re created the piece of his choice and made his own real life interpretation in present day. What what this scenario actually look like in real life? After reviewing his work, i’ve gathered that not only does he have an incredible way of viewing and interpreting things, he also uses an underlining sense of humour in the work. Whether it’s intentional or not, it adds a dimension to his work that i had never even considered myself ( allowing my work to not be so serious ) His ideas seem to reflect the ideas of Jean Paul Satre, in which he studies human constructs, and deconstructs them, allowing them to be seen for what they really are, in it’s simplest form.
Jalsa, Mumbai Feb 13, 2021 Sat 11:45 PM
Birthday - EF - Saikarun Balivada .. Sunday, February 14 .. birthday wishes and the cautions of safety and precaution .. with love from the Ef ..
It is the night desired .. the peace and the quiet .. the distant .. the solitudinous in the perceived perception .. always so very attractive and beholden .. never a moment of the dull tedious and tiresome .. and personalised to an extent of the liking need ..
Did you get that ..?
They that did , are the ones that shall ever be in the synonymous realm of likeness .. a likeness that brings in the presence of the writing here .. the words chosen , the mean expressed .. and yet the feel in its distance ..
Words are the ‘bane of ones existence’ .. say many in the text books of the educated .. depending of course what the exists are .. life , connect , relation , existentialism - a free and responsible agent - a Jean-Paul Satre, Simone , Kafka, Dostoyevsky contributed presence .. the philosophical gurus of the existential realm .. or whatever they meant .. words ..
And there is a quick reflect on the dissertation on Babuji by a lady at SNDT and a quick glance at her readings - quite interesting
शब्दों की ताक़त और उनकी सीमाओं को लेकर बाबूजी का मत :
"शब्दमय तुम और मैं , जग शब्द से भरपूर ,
दूर तुम हो और मैं हूँ आज तुमसे दूर ,
अब हमारे बीच में है शब्द की दीवार ।
क्षीण कितना शब्द का आधार " ~ hrb
.. an extract from a dissertation on Babuji by संदेशा भावसार
... the strength and the limitations of words are so succinctly expressed in one of Babuji’s works , says the lady who has just presented to me a dissertation on Babuji ..
Babuji poem ed
‘you are filled with words , and the world is full of them ; you are distant and I am distant from you ; there be a wall between us, of words ; how wasted and decayed it is to be dependent on the premise of words’
.. and I remain in wonder ..
And discover more today in the present .. a present of many thousand pages .. this one, just came about on the turn of the page ..
‘वेदना के बिना , मनुष्य का अहं नहीं टूटता , और अहं के टूटे बिना एक मनुष्य के हृदय से दूसरे मनुष्य के हृदय तक पहुँच नहीं होती , सेतु नहीं बनता’
Babuji’s first wife who died after a very painful departure - Babuji not having the means to treat her illness , used a pet name for Babuji and addressed him as ‘Suffering’ ..
It was a reflection on the mind state of Babuji .. he had lost his sister, his brother other relatives , very dear and close friends .. in a short span of time , so his writings reflected his state , and hence the title ‘suffering’ ..
.. and so Babuji’s defence of his writings were that ‘without the presence of pain and anguish in ones life , the ego of the human never breaks ; and without the breaking of ego , it is not possible for one human to reach the heart of another ; that bridge is never made ..’
And the more one encounters the writings thoughts and the deepest of words in Babuji’s works, one realises what a mountain of life experiences he has left behind .. and many millions are simply unaware of it ..
The task is imperative .. the work needs attention and reliving .. it needs to breathe .. to spread its spread ..
.. and it must be done ..
The day has tired the body but not the mind .. it is time for the slumber, but the mind fears that .. it fears the waste of the exercise when so much more in value needs attention ..
I speak often of it .. and wonder now I should not .. when spoken it never fructifies .. keep in the silent resolve and move towards its elements .. in the quiet silence that Father often worked and desired ..
Today solitude has different connotations .. most of the World adores it .. our companions be before us even now as I write .. they talk to us they listen to us they guide they control us ..
This is the new World order .. accept it or be prepared to be left forlorn and alone staring at the widest ocean before you, without any hope of being able to swim through it ..
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Eczacıbaşı Fotoğraf Sanatçıları Dizisi’nden Lütfi Özkök retrospektifi Haberi
Eczacıbaşı Fotoğraf Sanatçıları Dizisi’nden Lütfi Özkök retrospektifi Haberi
Eczacıbaşı Topluluğu’nun 50 yılı aşkın bir geçmişe sahip fotoğraf yayıncılığı geleneğinin bir parçası olan ve Dr. Nejat F. Eczacıbaşı Vakfı tarafından yayımlanan seri, her yıl bir fotoğraf sanatçısını odağına alıyor.
Serinin on birinci kitabında fotoğraf sanatçısı, şair ve çevirmen Lütfi Özkök’e yer verildi. Kitapta Nâzım Hikmet, Louis Aragon, Simone de Beauvoir, Jean-Paul Satre,…
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