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Life, as the most ancient of all metaphors insists, is a journey; and the... Video
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Life, as the most ancient of all metaphors insists, is a journey; and the travel book, in its deceptive simulation of the journey's fits and starts, rehearses life's own fragmentation. More even than the novel, it embraces the contingency of things.
Not so many years ago there was no simpler or more intelligible notion than that of going on a journey. Travel --movement through space --provided the universal metaphor for change. One of the subtle confusions --perhaps one of the secret terrors --of modern life is that we have lost this refuge. No longer do we move through space as we once did.
Daniel J. Boorstin
Life is a journey that must be traveled no matter how bad the roads and accommodations.
In contrast to the flux and muddle of life, art is clarity and enduring presence. In the stream of life, few things are perceived clearly because few things stay put. Every mood or emotion is mixed or diluted by contrary and extraneous elements. The clarity of artâ€”the precise evocation of mood in the novel, or of summer twilight in a paintingâ€”is like waking to a bright landscape after a long fitful slumber, or the fragrance of chicken soup after a week of head cold.
Life resembles a novel more often than novels resemble life.
Novels are longer than life.
Natalie Clifford Barney
The really great novel tends to be the exact negative of its author's life.
The only reason for the existence of a novel is that it does attempt to represent life.
What is a novel if not a conviction of our fellow-men's existence strong enough to take upon itself a form of imagined life clearer than reality and whose accumulated verisimilitude of selected episodes puts to shame the pride of documentary history?
There are the rushing waves... mountains of molecules, each stupidly minding its own business... trillions apart ...yet forming white surf in unison. Ages on ages... before any eyes could see... year after year... thunderously pounding the shore as now. For whom, for what? ...on a dead planet with no life to entertain. Never at rest... tortured by energy... wasted prodigiously by the sun... poured into space. A mite makes the sea roar. Deep in the sea, all molecules repeat the patterns of another till complex new ones are formed. They make others like themselves... and a new dance starts. Growing in size and complexity... living things, masses of atoms, DNA, protein... dancing a pattern ever more intricate. Out of the cradle onto dry land... here it is standing... atoms with consciousness ...matter with curiosity. Stands at the sea... wonders at wondering... I... a universe of atoms... an atom in the universe.
Feynman, Richard P.
Remaining character count: 500
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