Love is, above all, the gift of oneself.
Jean AnouilhRead
Have you noticed that life, with murders and catastrophes and fabulous inheritances, happens almost exclusively in newspapers?
Interpretation
Life's dramatic events often seem more like stories in the news rather than everyday realities.
Jean Anouilh's quote suggests that the extraordinary events of life, such as violence, disasters, and sudden fortunes, are often sensationalized in newspapers, making them feel distant and unreal. He implies that these events do not fully reflect the true essence of daily life, as they are more often retold as captivating narratives rather than lived experiences.
In practice
In a discussion about the impact of media on our perception of reality.
Love is, above all, the gift of oneself.
It bothered me that whatever was waiting wasn't waiting for me
Life is very nice, but it lacks form. It's the aim of art to give it some.
The object of art is to give life shape.
Tragedy is restful: and the reason is that hope, that foul, deceitful thing, has no part in it.
Propaganda is a soft weapon; hold it in your hands too long, and it will move about like a snake, and strike the other way.
We can bear to be deprived of everything but our self-conceit.
Our nation was not founded because we all looked alike, or prayed alike, or descended from the same family tree. But our founders, in their genius, in this, the oldest constitutional democracy, put forth on this earth the idea that all are created equal; that we all have inalienable rights.
Feminism is just an idea. It's a philosophy. It's about the equality of women in all realms. It's not about man-hating. It's not about being humorless. We have to let go of these misconceptions that have plagued feminism for 40, 50 years.
The time at our disposal each day is elastic; the passions we feel dilate it, those that inspire us shrink it, and habit fills it.
Faith is permitting ourselves to be seized by the things that we do not see.
You couldn't pretend you had lost nothing... you had to begin there, not let your blood freeze over. If your heart turned away at this, it would turn away at something greater, then more and more until your heart stayed averted, immobile, your imagination redistributed away from the world and back only toward the bad maps of yourself, the sour pools of your own pulse, your own tiny, mean, and pointless wants.
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