Sunday, September 8

Arts & Culture

Every night, for every human being that ever was and ever will be, the Moon rises to remind us how improbably lucky we are, each of its craters a monument of the odds we prevailed against to exist, a reliquary of the violent collisions that forged our rocky planet lush with life and tore from its body our only satellite with its miraculous proportions that render randomness too small a word — exactly 400 times smaller than the Sun and exactly 400 times closer to Earth, so that each time it passes between the two, the Moon covers the face… read article

This is the great paradox: that human life, lived between the time of starlings and the time of stars, is made meaningful entirely inside the self, but the self is a mirage of the mind, a figment of cohesion that makes the chaos and transience bearable. A few times a lifetime, if you are lucky, something — an encounter with nature, a work of art, a great love — sparks what Iris Murdoch so wonderfully termed “an occasion for unselfing,” dismantling the cathedral of illusion and rendering you one with everything that ever was and ever will be. Because time… read article

This is the great paradox: that human life, lived between the time of starlings and the time of stars, gains significance solely within oneself, yet the self is a creation of the mind, a concept that helps make the disorder and shortness of life bearable. Occasionally, if you are fortunate, something — an experience with nature, a piece of art, a profound love — ignites what Iris Murdoch so beautifully called “an occasion for unselfing,” breaking down the castle of deception and uniting you with everything that ever existed or will exist. Because time… read article

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