"... There are in every part of the
search. I am not a prisoner of history. I should not seek there
for the meaning of my destiny. I should constantly remind
myself that the real leap consists in the introduction of invention
into existence. In the world through which I travel, I am
endlessly creating myself..."
in Black Skin, White Masks, 1952
ஊரே ; யாவரும் கேளிர் ;
தீதும் நன்றும் பிறர்தர வாரா ;
நோதலும் தணிதலும் அவற்றோ ரன்ன ;
சாதலும் புதுவது அன்றே ; வாழ்தல்
இனிதுஎன மகிழ்ந்தன்றும் இலமே; முனிவின்,
இன்னா தென்றலும் இலமே; ‘மின்னொடு
வானம் தண்துளி தலைஇ, ஆனாது
கல்பொருது இரங்கும் மல்லற் பேர்யாற்று
நீர்வழிப் படூஉம் புணைபோல, ஆருயிர்
முறைவழிப் படூஉம்’ என்பது திறவோர்
காட்சியின் தெளிந்தனம் ஆகலின், மாட்சியின்
பெரியோரை வியத்தலும் இலமே;
சிறியோரை இகழ்தல் அதனினும் இலமே.
எட்டுத்தொகை நூல்களில் ஒன்றாகிய
புறநானூறு. 192 - பாடியவர்: கணியன் பூங்குன்றன்
"...A key psychology for
leading (is to).. retain absolute faith that you can and will
prevail in the end regardless of the difficulties, and at the same
time confront the most brutal facts of your current reality,
whatever they might be... Create a culture.. for the truth to be
heard. Creating a climate where truth is heard involves four
1 Lead with questions, not
2 Engage in dialogue, not
3. Conduct autopsies without
4. Build red flag mechanisms
that turn information into information that cannot be ignored.
Leadership does not begin
just with vision. It begins with getting people to confront the
brutal facts and to act on the implications..." Jim Collins
- Good to Great
"...The goal is not to
speculate on what might happen, but to imagine what you can
actually make happen...." Gary Hamel in Leading
"... As human beings,
our greatness lies not so much in being able to remake the
World, as in being able to remake ourselves. We must become the
change we wish to see in the world...” Mahatma Gandhi
"When I was a young man, I
wanted to change the world. I found it was difficult to change the
world, so I tried to change my nation. When I found I couldn't change
the nation, I began to focus on my town. I couldn't change the town
and as an older man, I tried to change my family. Now, as an old man,
I realize the only thing I can change is myself, and suddenly I
realize that if long ago I had changed myself, I could have made an
impact on my family. My family and I could have made an impact on our
town. Their impact could have changed the nation and I could indeed
have changed the world." - Author Unknown on Changing the World.
"They call you 'Little Man',
'Common Man'; they say a new era has begun, the 'Era of the
Common Man'. It isn't you who says so, Little Man. It is they,
the Vice Presidents of great nations, promoted labour leaders,
repentant sons of bourgeois families, statesman and
philosophers. They give you your future but don't ask about your
past....I have never heard you complain: "You promote me to be
the future master of myself and the world, but you don't tell me
how one is to be the master of oneself, and you don't tell me
the mistakes in my thinking and my actions."
"Your liberators tell you that
that your suppressors are Wilhelm, Nikolaus, Pope Gregory the
Twenty Eighth, Morgan, Krupp or Ford. And your 'liberators' are
called Mussolini, Napolean, Hitler and Stalin. I tell you: Only
you yourself can be your liberator!"
"This sentence makes me hesitate.
I contend to be a fighter for pureness and truth. I hesitate,
because I am afraid of you and your attitude towards truth... My
intellect tells me: 'Tell the truth at any cost.' The Little Man
in me says: 'It is stupid to expose oneself to the little man,
to put oneself at his mercy. The Little Man does not want to
hear the truth about himself. He does not want the great
responsibility which is his. He wants to remain a Little
Man...." Wilhelm Reich - Listen
"...In a very real
sense, followers lead by choosing where to be led. Where an
organised community will be led is inseparable from the shared
values and beliefs of its members..." Dee Hock - The Art of
"In modern times there is no lack
of understanding of the fact man is a social being and that 'No
man is an Iland, intire of it selfe' (John Dunne, 1571-1631).
Hence there is no lack of exhortation that he should love his
neighbour - or at least not to be nasty to him - and should
treat him with tolerance, compassion and understanding. At the
same time, however, the cultivation of self knowledge has fallen
into virtually total neglect, except, that is, where it is the
object of active suppression.
That you cannot
love your neighbour, unless you love yourself; that you cannot
understand your neighbour unless you understand yourself; that
there can be no knowledge of the 'invisible person' who is your
neighbour except on the basis of self knowledge - these
fundamental truths have been forgotten even by many of the
professionals in the established religions.
cannot possibly have any effect; genuine understanding of one's
neighbour is replaced by sentimentality,
which ofcourse crumbles into nothingness as soon as self
interest is aroused...
Anyone who goes openly on a
journey into the interior, who withdraws from the ceaseless
agitation of everyday life and pursues the kind of training -
satipatthana, yoga, Jesus Prayer, or something similar - without
which genuine self knowledge cannot be obtained, is accused of
selfishness and of turning his back on social duties.
Meanwhile, world crisis multiply
and everybody deplores the shortage, or even total lack, of
'wise' men or women, unselfish leaders, trustworthy counselors
etc. It is hardly rational to expect such high qualities from
people who have never done any inner work and would not even
understand what was meant by the words..." E.F.Schumacher,
Guide for the Perplexed
"...The desire to
share knowing with another human being is a fundamental one. It is at
heart a desire to make your thoughts known to the other and to learn
whether they are understood, even shared - always with the chance that I
will mean more than I meant before, because of the way the other has
understood what I have said. The process is one that truly works from
and the outside in, as we each become different persons through
our interaction with one another..." - Deanne Kuhn, Professor of
Psychology and Education, Columbia University in Piaget
Vygotsky & Beyond: Future Issues for Developmental Psychology and
"You know, you could not see me unless you could also see my background, what
stands behind me. If I, myself, the boundaries of my skin, were coterminous with
your whole field of vision you would not see me at all. You would not see me because, in
order to see me, not only would you have to see what is inside the boundary of my skin,
but also what is outside it. This is terribly important -
- for every outside there is an inside,
and for every inside there is an outside,
and though they are different, they go together.-
... you do not find one without the other."
Om - Creative
Meditations, Edited and Adapted by Judith Johnstone, 1980
What do you see? A vase or two
faces, or both? At the same time?
அகம் - புறம்...
"...The capital period of
my intellectual development was when I could see clearly that what
the intellect said might be correct and not correct, that what the
intellect justified was true and its opposite was also true. I never
admitted a truth in the mind without simultaneously keeping it open
to the contrary of it.. And the first result was that the prestige
of the intellect was gone..." Aurobindo quoted in Satprem's
Adventure of Consciousness
"...The (mind)... seems to deal effectively only with parts of the
total reality. It directs its attention to discrete and separate
parts of the whole. In order that it may understand, the mind
separates and conceptualises. It separates that which is connected
and the very process of separation distorts an understanding of the
whole. The mind thinks in sequence in time. The present is a
fleeting moment and is then gone forever. Thoughts are so much grist
to its mill. Words and concepts are the instruments of its trade.
The mind seeks to clarify one concept by having recourse to another.
It defines one word with another. There is no end to this process
nor is there a starting point. The mind deals in opposites. There is
no idealism without materialism; there are no means without ends;
there is no detachment without attachment; there is no free will
without determinism; there is no good without bad. If everything was
good what would it mean? Presumably, we would stop using the
word..." Nadesan Satyendra On the Bhavad Gita, 1981
"...all the propositions
of logic say the same thing, to wit nothing. To give the essence of
a proposition means to give the essence of all description, and thus
the essence of the world. The limits of my language mean the limits
of my world. What can be shown, cannot be said. There are, indeed,
things that cannot be put into words. They make themselves manifest.
My propositions serve as elucidations in the following way: anyone
who understands me eventually recognizes them as nonsensical, when
he has used them - as steps - to climb up beyond them. (He must, so
to speak, throw away the ladder after he has climbed up it.) He must
transcend these propositions, and then he will see the world aright.
What we cannot speak about we must pass over in silence..." Ludwig
|"The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share,
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the Poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour:-
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.
Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation's eyes,
Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.
For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, --
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn;
'There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high.
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.
'One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;
'The next with dirges due in sad array
Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne,-
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.'
Here rests his head upon the lap of
A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.
Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,
And Melacholy marked him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Misery all he had, a tear,
He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.
No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode
(There they alike in trembling hope repose),
The bosom of his Father and his God."
Elegy Written in a Country
By Thomas Gray (1716-71).