On love, death, and um’s

Imagine, if you will, a fully lived life. Having what you need and loving what you should. No more, no less, no other.

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I read the last lines of George Whitman’s life and thus fell in love with a dead man. Whitman, 98, was a famous bookseller whose three floor shop was set down on the Left Bank. “Mr. Whitman,” says the NYT, “had variously called himself a communist, a utopian and a humanist. But he may have also been a romanticist himself, at least concerning his life’s work. ‘I may disappear leaving behind me no worldly possessions–just a few old socks and love letters.'”

Spinoza left a few change of clothes folded in his wardrobe and a medallion into which was etched caute.

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Practicing philosophy is like praying by other means.

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Self-love comes without any um‘s.

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Hegel thought that in order to know ourselves we had to learn how we fit into the order of things. The story of a individual’s life, he says, is the story of a civilization. But you can’t just skip to the ending even though most of your life has been and may well be spent out of sorts. Have patience. Keep going. Because your story and mine are one, because yours and mine are ours. But to see this, you’ll have to live the whole story through but then once you’ve done this you’ll find yourself at home with yourself, with me, and with all that is and was.

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Lovers wear flesh with smirking delight.

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I think I could love a woman if she wore the sun on her shoulder. If she looks at me, I’m sure I can say yes to everything.

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