“ART only goes on pride, lust, intelligence, and practice of all sides – seems to be the reality of the country,” Saul said on his good accepting speech. “There is another truth, which is genuine, we receive. This is always a reality of US plans, which is not without art, we cannot accept.”
It is a good idea, beautiful and perfect. The art is one way to communicate in the deepest reality. Science is one of the facts, along with its factual revelations and so are more than seeing that they seem to be accessible, from millions of Neutrinos passing through your body in the Quatomic World.
But in addition to ART, more than science, we establish one use to cut the habit curtain and give new land. Love is alone darkening the sky and green grass and lightens all that we see. It is real to the last of the illegal, its mysterious no drawing or poem that can completely hold and no FMRI can completely explain.
In 1965, the Potics Neurologist Oliver Sacks (July 9, 1933 – August 30, 2015 – August 30, New York, where the Albert Einstein College was granted. He found the city's “Fantastic Furor of creation, 'but his painful intervention and vision left him feeling ungrateful.
On that summer, just before starting his new work, he went home to London. While in Europe, she met Jenö Velze – Hungarian Shaanian Director living in Berlin. Oliver was planning to go to the neurology conference in Vienna. Instead, he found himself in Paris, Amsterdam, in love with Jenö. Here is a strong and original scientist, who would give his life to lighten our senses of our psychologists, suddenly reduced everything and understandable for all. He also looks back at this time as one of “a strong loving sense of love, death, and inclination.”
When killing in New York, Oliver started trying to close the lying on her own body by donating her land, writes some of the greatest love characters I have learned. In one of the wealth collected in his published printed printed Bullets (library), he writes:
My Dear Jenö is:
I held your book in my pocket all day, and now I still have time to write you. It is seven o'clock, the end of a beautiful day. The sun is Mave and Crimson on the new York Skyline screen. Indicated in cubes and the City's Briks of Aztec. The dark clouds, like wolves, running into the sky. Jet rises in a long white tail. A heavy air. I love her scream, I want to make fun of me. Trees interrupt. The old man runs behind its hat. Black now. The sun has taken, the city. A dark painting in the Sumbre Skyline sky. And soon there will be a billion lights.
Not, explaining the city as it happened but as they were. This, in the end, can be any love – a thousand billions within the world's luminous, sunshine.
How long do I feel, the end of the closeness. Together all this time. I feel your breathing side of my neck … my blood is Champagne. I fizz gladly. I smile like a litigation house in all directions. Everyone catches and shows my smile.
[…]
I want to share my joy with you. To see a green crab, the egg charges drawn to the sea. Small octopus, which is already shaped, joyfully flirted in salty water. Anemones at sea. A sweet gentle pressure when you touch their center. Chalky hands on structures. And polychaete in their beautiful versecaedies (remind me of Versailles), walking with kindness to put down. And get in with me under the sea, Jenö. For fish, such as birds, accepting your presence. And red sponges in a subtle cave. And freedom, freedom, and complete freedom of movement, only secondly in the area itself.
Oliver longed to transport Jenö not on earth but on earth, on earth, he lived the best reach and the station was well written. He would show “the act of writing later,” is a special way, which is very important to speak to me. “Now, he tells his lover:
I have learned the Psalms in slashing, because they don't have, trust, and love, and the pure tongue in the morning … I write very much. I want to catch everything and share with you. You will be deprived of all your social health, your sleep, your food, who is sentenced to read undeniable literature. Jenö is poor, who is committed who is loved and dusty, speaking all day, and speaks all night, and talking to her, talk to her. The middle words where I should translate reality. I live in words, with pictures, metaphors, syllables, rhymes. I can't help you.
Once again, you continue to return to this new quality of light expressed love:
The weather has always been a great beauty. The day raises all in the golden liquid … Back next tonight, the amazing Amber light is full of doors and windows: large stars in the sky of indigo. In this case, you have to be great, mad, or love the most in love … I have never seen that gold light before we meet in Paris.
Perhaps it was a brush and the most incomparable romantic love that will later write about the limits of artificial intelligence and for the meaning of our human life.
Two days later, he also writes:
I love wisely, yet it is the most wonderful wisdom I've ever known. I have read and read your wonderful letter. I hear it in my pocket of ten dresses. Her trust, its warmth, passes, whatever I ever know … I believe that we are the limit, Jenö. I see the future as an increase in the current current, not closing the calendar leaves.
Like everyone else in love, Oliver thought life and Jenö, never thinking that he would never see each other, even fear Celibate, He was afraid he was in love.
But love will find him at the end – good and bright love that would hold about modest death.
