Grasp the Rainbow

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I would believe only in a god who could dance. And when I saw my devil I found him serious, thorough, profound, and solemn: it was the spirit of gravity - through him all things fall.

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Dancing in all its forms cannot be excluded from the curriculum of all noble education; dancing with the feet, with ideas, with words, and, need I add that one must also be able to dance with the pen?

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Every day I count wasted in which there has been no dancing.

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And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.

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He who would learn to fly one day must first learn to stand and walk and run and climb and dance; one cannot fly into flying.

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Only in the dance do I know how to tell the parable of the highest things.

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How much a spirit needs for its nourishment, for this there is no formula; but if its taste is for independence, for quick coming and going, for roaming, perhaps for adventures for which only the swiftest are a match, it is better for such a spirit to live in freedom with little to eat than unfree and stuffed. It is not fat but the greatest possible suppleness and strength that a good dancer desires from his nourishment - and I would not know what the spirit of a philosopher might wish more to be than a good dancer. For the dance is his ideal, also his art, and finally also his only piety, his "service of God."

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Lift up your hearts, my brothers, high, higher! And do not forget your legs either. Lift up your legs too, you good dancers; and better yet, stand on your heads!
(...)
Zarathustra, the dancer; Zarathustra, the light one who beckons with his wings, preparing for a flight, beckoning to all birds, ready and heady, blissfully lightheaded;
(...)
You higher men, the worst about you is that all of you have not learned to dance as one must dance - dancing away over yourselves! ...learn to laugh away over yourselves! Lift up your hearts, you good dancers, high, higher! And do not forget good laughter. This crown of him who laughs, this rose-wreath crown: to you, my brothers, I throw this crown. Laughter I have pronounced holy; you higher men, learn to laugh!

(all Nietzsche)

• 2Ovo se svidja korisnicima: mcrule, posebna
  
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Govor

Smatram velikom slaboscu i stvarno bih bio
potisten kada bih sve ovo sto osecam,
morao da ti objasnjavam hudim jezikom
coveka: recima sumnjivim, rovitim, razjedenim
i nekorisnim.
Postoje svakodnevne, sasvim obicne stvari,
koje su mnogima tajna.
"Najcvrsca vrata su ona koja su sirom otvorena,
kaze jedan prastari zapis sa Tibeta.
Postoji govor koji ce neko otkriti sutra, a
mozda niko nece ni pokusavati da ga
otkrije. Ali ti ga vec sada moras obuhvatiti
mislima.
Jer to je jezik znacenja, a ne dijalekt naziva.
Postoje kulture gestova, disanja ili vida.
Postoji vreme vremena i prostiranje prostora.
Postoji lepota lepote. Postoji istina istine,
stvarnost stvarnog, volja volje i moc moci.
Postoji kretanje kretanja, razmisljanje razmisljanja,
postoji i ljubav ljubavi, sine moj.
Sve se ređe usuđujem da izgovaram reči, jer
uvek znače drugo nego što ja to želim.
Sve dalje su od govora i teško ih razabirem
u šumovima beskraja.
Tkivo tetovira na tkivo otiske nasleđa. Takvo
je moje ćutanje s tobom ove noći. Opnu po
opnu, ljisku po ljusku, sluz po sluz, zamor
među nama civilizacije protozoa, epohe
virusa, ćelije stena i vazduha, i ustavljena
koža vode i večnosti.
To je kao da se sporazumevamo u svim
vremenima, sada iz ovog trenutka, u kojem
smo se zadesili.
Pisem umesto tebe Snežani i Alisi. Šaljem
telegrame Pinokiju i Malom Princu. Javljam
se bar jednom dnevno telefonom
Galebu Džonatanu Livingstonu i Pepeljugi.
Ali ni reči odgovora. Znači da misle
na nas.
Ko zna glasove misli, retko kada se oglasi
glasom govora.
Ljudi se poštuju rečima, a vole ćutanjem.

(M. Antic)

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"Love is a temporary madness,
it erupts like volcanoes and then subsides.
And when it subsides you have to make a decision.
You have to work out whether your roots have so entwined together
that it is inconceivable that you should ever part.
Because this is what love is.
Love is not breathlessness,
it is not excitement,
it is not the promulgation of eternal passion.
That is just being "in love" which any fool can do.
Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away,
and this is both an art and a fortunate accident.
Those that truly love, have roots that grow towards each other underground,
and when all the pretty blossom have fallen from their branches,
they find that they are one tree and not two."

(Captain Corelli's Mandolin by Louis de Bernières)