jump to navigation

Wh… March 17, 2018

Posted by ZaQ in Readings....
add a comment

…en we read, another person thinks for us: we merely repeat his mental process.

In learning to write, the pupil goes over with his pen what the teacher has outlined in pencil: so in reading; the greater part of the work of thought is already done for us. This is why it relieves us to take up a book after being occupied with our own thoughts. And in reading, the mind is, in fact, only the playground of another’s thoughts. So it comes about that if anyone spends almost the whole day in reading, and by way of relaxation devotes the intervals to some thoughtless pastime, he gradually loses the capacity for thinking; just as the man who always rides, at last forgets how to walk.

This is the case with many learned persons: they have read themselves stupid. – Arthur Schopenhauer

Advertisements

Sh… March 11, 2018

Posted by ZaQ in Readings....
add a comment

…e decides to make a list of things that make her happy.
She writes ‘plum blossom’ at the top of a piece of paper.

Then she stares at the piece of paper, unable to think of anything else.

Eventually it begins to get dark.

– 15 Portraits of Despair, Neil Gaiman

Rava… October 20, 2010

Posted by ZaQ in Readings....
Tags: ,
add a comment

..ges of time has reached the Guandu Chapters, and it quotes Tao Te Ching

To reduce someone’s influence, first expand it;
To reduce someone’s force, first increase it;
To overthrow someone, first exalt them;
To take from someone, first give to them.

This is the subtlety by which the weak overcome the strong:
Fish should not leave their depths,
And swords should not leave their scabbards.

epic manhua!

~hekekeke

Li… October 15, 2010

Posted by ZaQ in Readings....
Tags: ,
add a comment

…st of things they don’t teach you.

I’ve been making a list of the things they don’t teach you at school. They don’t teach you how to love somebody. They don’t teach you how to be famous. They don’t teach you how to be rich or how to be poor. They don’t teach you how to walk away from someone you don’t love any longer. They don’t teach you how to know what’s going on in someone else’s mind. They don’t teach you what to say to someone who’s dying. They don’t teach you anything worth knowing.
— Neil Gaiman

word

~needMoreReadingMaterials

Dre… September 27, 2010

Posted by ZaQ in Readings....
Tags:
add a comment

…sden files novels are strangely… addictive :p

Sur… July 30, 2010

Posted by ZaQ in Readings....
Tags:
add a comment

…vivors do not mourn together. They each mourn alone, even when in the same place. Grief is the most solitary of all feelings. Grief isolates, and every ritual, every gesture, every embrace, is a hopeless effort to break through that isolation.

None of it works. The forms crumble and dissolve.

To face death is to stand alone.

— Toll The Hounds, Steven Erikson

Brid… August 24, 2009

Posted by ZaQ in Readings....
Tags: ,
add a comment

…ge where she walks.

Face of Sorrow
Toc the Younger, Steven Erikson

I have seen the face of sorrow
She looks away in the distance
Across all these bridges
From whence I came

And those spans, trussed and ached
Hold up our lives as we go back again
To how we thought then
To how we through we thought then

I have seen sorrow’s face,
But she is ever turned away
And her words leave me blind
Her eyes make me mute

I do not understand what she says to me
I do not know if to obey
Or attempt a flood of tears
I have seen her face

She does not speak
She does not weep
She does not know me
For I am but a stone fitted in place
On the bridge where she walks

great poem, great book :p

High… March 11, 2009

Posted by ZaQ in Readings....
Tags:
2 comments

…wayman

The Highwayman
Alfred Noyes

One

I
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight, over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding-
Riding-riding-
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

II
He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

III
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

IV
And dark in the old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say-

V
“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”

VI
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i’ the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.

Two

I
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o’ the tawny sunset, before the rise o’ the moon,
When the road was a gipsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching-
Marching-marching-
King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

II
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through the casement, the road that he would ride.

III
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
“Now keep good watch!” and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say-
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

IV
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till here fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like
years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

V
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love’s refrain.

VI
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up strait and still!

VII
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him-with her death.

VIII
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

IX
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i’ the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

X
And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding-
Riding-riding-
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

XI
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

creepy :p

~hehehe

Qu… March 10, 2009

Posted by ZaQ in Readings....
Tags:
add a comment

…it the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart,
And take thy form from off my door!

–The Raven, Edgar Allen Poe

Mich… November 6, 2008

Posted by ZaQ in Readings....
Tags:
8 comments

..ael Crichton passed away at the age of 66.

Here is an author that introduced me to the world of science fiction. I distinctly remember reading Congo in 1994, and although the novel never became one of my favorite, I still remember it quite clearly. The next novel from him that I read was Jurassic Park in 1995 (I’ve watched the movie by then), and his use of documents, diagrams, charts, etc (fabricated or otherwise) to provide some background to his novel(s) fascinates me so much that I began fervently scanning shelves on every bookstore for his works. This leads me to Sphere (I thought this one was kinda… weak), Airframe (thought it was too technical and stuff… but you know I was probably only 14 at that time, later on when I reread this one, I think I loved this one better than any other of Crichton’s works), The Andromeda Strain (quite creepy) and The Great Train Robbery (pretty good) just before Indonesia imploded in 1998 xD. The economic meltdown stemmed my er.. feverish impulse buying spree at least until 2002 when I finally bought and read Prey (quite good, it has genetic programming, which is hawt sauce), then Timeline (not quite able to like this one), and of course State of Fear (like) and lastly Next (like it better).

How did this author paved my way to sci-fi nirvana? By a combination of 28.8 us robotics modem and the magic of phone line (sorry mom and dad for the hiked up phone charges), I started to search for essays, reviews and discussion about Crichton’s works and through that, I was able to find the works of Arthur Clarke (2001, Rama), Robert Heinlein (Starship Troopers, Strangers in a Strange Land), the multitude Star Wars EU novel(s) (okay.. this is more like space opera than sci-fi… so what? xD) and Orson Scott Card (Ender series). And for all of this, and more it is in my humble opinion that this author really rocks 😛 Thank you for all the sleepless night(s) (and day(s)), here’s hoping that I can get my hands on your last title (to be published posthumously in 2009) and may it give me some more sleepless night(s) and/or day(s).

~willMissYourWorks