History is a living horse laughing at a wooden horse. History is a wind blowing where it listeth. History is no sure thing to bet on. History is a box of tricks with a lost key. History is a labyrinth of doors with sliding panels, a book of ciphers with the code in a cave of the Saragossa sea. History says, if it pleases, Excuse me, I beg your pardon, it will never happen again if I can help it.
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Through all these new, imaginative, and creative approaches to the problem of sharing our earth with other creatures there runs a constant theme, the awareness that we are dealing with life with living populations and all their pressures and counter pressures, their surges and recessions. Only by taking account of such life forces and by cautiously seeking to guide them into channels favorable to ourselves can we hope to achieve a reasonable accommodation between the insect hordes and ourselves. The current vogue for poisons has failed utterly to take into account these most fundamental considerations. As crude a weapon as the cave man's club, the chemical barrage has been hurled against the fabric of life a fabric on the one hand delicate and destructible, on the other miraculously tough and resilient, and capable of striking back in unexpected ways. These extraordinary capacities of life have been ignored by the practitioners of chemical control who have brought to their task no high-minded orientation, no humility before the vast forces with which they tamper. The control of nature is a phrase conceived in arrogance, born of the Neanderthal age of biology and philosophy, when it was supposed that nature exists for the convenience of man. The concepts and practices of applied entomology for the most part date from that Stone Age of science. It is our alarming misfortune that so primitive a science has armed itself with the most modem and terrible weapons, and that in turning them against the insects it has also turned them against the earth.
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The city is a fact in nature, like a cave, a run of mackerel or an ant-heap. But it is also a conscious work of art, and it holds within its communal framework many simpler and more personal forms of art. Mind takes form in the city; and in turn, urban forms condition mind.
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I suppose one night hundreds of thousands of years ago in a cave by a night fire when one of those shaggy men wakened to gaze over the banked coals at his woman, his children, and thought of their being cold, dead, gone forever. Then he must have wept. And he put out his hand in the night to the woman who must die some day and to the children who must follow her. And for a little bit next morning, he treated them somewhat better, for he saw that they, like himself, had the seed of night in them.
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I don't have a problem with them having a dam. The problem is standing water on the road bed. Eventually, that water will erode the road bed and the road will then break up and cave in.
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Who could deny that privacy is a jewel? It has always been the mark of privilege, the distinguishing feature of a truly urbane culture. Out of the cave, the tribal teepee, the pueblo, the community fortress, man emerged to build himself a house of his own with a shelter in it for himself and his diversions. Every age has seen it so. The poor might have to huddle together in cities for need's sake, and the frontiersman cling to his neighbors for the sake of protection. But in each civilization, as it advanced, those who could afford it chose the luxury of a withdrawing-place.
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Well I've been bound and gagged and I've been terrorized And I've been castrated and I've been lobotomized But never has my tormenter come in such a cunning disguise
I let love in I let love in [...]
So if you're sitting all alone and hear a-knocking at you door and the air is full of promises, well buddy, you've been warned Far worse to be Love's lover than the lover that Love has scorned
I let love in I let love in
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It was one of those days when it's a minute away from snowing. And there's this electricity in the air, you can almost hear it right? And this bag was just... dancing with me... Like a little kid begging me to play with it. For fifteen minutes. That's the day I realized that there was this entire life behind things, and this incredibly benevolent force that wanted me to know there was no reason to be afraid, ever. Video's a poor excuse, I know. But it helps me remember... I need to remember. Sometimes there's so much beauty in the world I feel like I can't take it... and my heart is going to cave in.
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When I was a kid, my favourite relative was Uncle Caveman. After school we'd all go play in his cave, and every once in awhile he would eat one of us. It wasn't until later that I found out that Uncle Caveman was a bear.
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Ads are the cave art of the twentieth century.
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There was this entire life behind things, and this incredibly benevolent force that wanted me to know that there was no reason to be afraid...ever. Video's a poor excuse, I know, but it helps me remember, I need to remember...sometimes there's so much beauty in the world, I feel like I can't take it... and my heart is just going to cave in.
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You are in a maze twisty little passages, all alike.
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The Paleolithic hunters who painted the unsurpassed animal murals on the ceiling of the cave at Altamira had only rudimentary tools. Art is older than production for use, and play older than work. Man was shaped less by what he had to do than by what he did in playful moments. It is the child in man that is the source of his uniqueness and creativeness, and the playground is the optimal milieu for the unfolding of his capacities.
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If there hadn't been women we'd still be squatting in a cave eating raw meat, because we made civilization in order to impress our girl friends. And they tolerated it and let us go ahead and play with our toys.
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The human mind is indeed a cave swarming with strange forms of life, most of them unconscious and unilluminated. Unless we can understand something as to how the motives that issue from this obscurity are generated, we can hardly hope to foresee or control them.
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While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and sped Through many a listening chamber, cave and ruin,...
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She had fortunately always her appetite for news. The pure flame of the disinterested burned in her cave of treasures as a lamp in a Byzantine vault.
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What difference is there, do you think, between those in Plato's cave who can only marvel at the shadows and images of various objects, provided they are content and don't know what they miss, and the philosopher who has emerged from the cave and sees the real things?
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Everywhere you hang your hat is home. Home is the bright cave under the hat.
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When evaluated on the basis of real usefulness to humanity, 'scientific research' is a fraud, whether intentional or not.
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The Cave of Jeremiah is in this part. In its lamentable recesses he composed his lamentable Lamentations.
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The Man Cave
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