hum

‘And what is the saint doing in the forest?’ asked Zarathustra. The saint answered: ‘I make songs and sing them; and when I make songs, I laugh, cry, and hum: thus do I praise God. With singing, crying, laughing, and humming do I praise the god who is my god. But what do you bring us as a gift?’ When Zarathustra had heard these words he bade farewell and said: ‘What could I have to give you? But let me go quickly lest I take something from you!’ And thus they separated, the old one and the man, laughing as two boys laugh.

M. Héristal’s income was far from great, but it was constant and it permitted him to live comfortably in the coach-house of Number One Avenue de Marigny; to attend carefully selected plays, concerts, and ballet; to belong to a good social club and three learned societies; to purchase books as he needed them; and to peer as a respected amateur at the incredible heavens over the Eight Arrondissement of Paris.

He was perishing for a smoke. However, there were only four cigarettes left. Today was Wednesday and he had no money coming to him till Friday. It would be too bloody to be without tobacco tonight as well as all tomorrow.
Bored in advance by tomorrow’s tobacco-less hours, he got up and moved towards the door - a small frail figure, with delicate bones and fretful movements. His coat was out at elbow in the right sleeve and its middle button was missing; his ready-made flannel trousers were stained and shapeless. Even from above you could see that his shoes needed resoling.
The money clinked in his trouser pocket as he got up. He knew the precise sum that was there. Fivepence halfpenny - twopence halfpenny and a Joey. He paused, took out the miserable little threepenny-bit, and looked at it. Beastly, useless thing! And bloody fool to have taken it! It had happened yesterday, when he was buying cigarettes. ‘Don’t mind a threepenny-bit, do you, sir?’ the little bitch of a shop-girl had chirped. And of course he had let her give it him. ‘Oh no, not at all!’ he had said - fool, bloody fool!

Smoking

Until philosophers rule as kings or those who are now called kings and leading men genuinely and adequately philosophise, that is, until political power and philosophy entirely coincide, while the many natures who at present pursue either one exclusively are forcibly prevented from doing so, cities will have no rest from evils, … nor, I think, will the human race.

Musica est exercitium arithmeticae occultum nescientis se numerare animi

There lived in the neighbourhood a very famous dervish, who passed for the greatest philosopher in Turkey. They went to consult him. Pangloss acted as their spokesman and said to him:
“Master, we have come to ask you to tell us why such a strange animal as man was created.”
“What’s that to you?” said the dervish. “Is it any of your business?”
“But, reverend father,” said Candide, “there’s an awful lot of evil in the world.”
“What does it matter whether there’s evil or there’s good?” said the dervish. “When His Highness sends a ship to Egypt, does he worry whether the mice on board are comfortable or not?”
“So what must we do then?” said Pangloss.
“Be silent,” said the dervish.
“I had flattered myself”, said Pangloss, “that we might have a talk about effect and causes, the best of all possible worlds, the origin of evil, the nature of the soul, and pre-established harmony.”
The dervish, at these words, slammed the door in their faces.

Voltaire
Candide

The past makes
no difference, the
future makes no
sense, the time
is always now

Western intellectuals are all sitting-addicts. That’s why most of you are so repulsively unwholesome. In the past even a duke had to do a lot of walking, even a moneylender, even a metaphysician. And when they weren’t using their legs, they were jogging about on horses. Whereas now, from the tycoon to his typist, from the logical positivist to the positive thinker, you spend nine tenths of your time on foam rubber. Spongy seats for spongy bottoms—at home, in the office, in cars and bars, in planes and trains and buses. No moving of legs, no struggles with distance and gravity—just lifts and planes and cars, just foam rubber and an eternity of sitting. The life force that used to find an outlet through striped muscle gets turned back on the viscera and the nervous system, and slowly destroys them.