If a poet interprets a poem of his own he limits its suggestibility.
William Butler YeatsRead
It is so many years before one can believe enough in what one feels even to know what the feeling is
Interpretation
Understanding our emotions takes time and introspection.
This quote by William Butler Yeats reflects on the complexities of human emotions and the struggle to truly comprehend oneβs feelings. It suggests that it often takes years of experience and reflection before we can fully believe in and articulate what we feel, highlighting the deep interplay between time, understanding, and emotional awareness.
In practice
During a workshop on emotional intelligence, I quoted Yeats to emphasize the journey of understanding our emotions.
If a poet interprets a poem of his own he limits its suggestibility.
It was my first meeting with a philosophy that confirmed my vague speculations and seemed at once logical and boundless.
But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
How far away the stars seem, and how far is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart.
For he would be thinking of love Till the stars had run away And the shadows eaten the moon.
Love is created and preserved by intellectual analysis, for we love only that which is unique, and it belongs to contemplation, not to action, for we would not change that which we love.
Our conscious motivations, ideas, and beliefs are a blend of false information, biases, irrational passions, rationalizations, prejudices, in which morsels of truth swim around and give the reassurance albeit false, that the whole mixture is real and true. The thinking processes attempt to organize this whole cesspool of illusions according to the laws of plausibility. This level of consciousness is supposed to reflect reality; it is the map we use for organizing our life.
It seems to me, that the only Objects of the abstract Sciences or of Demonstration is Quantity and Number, and that all Attempts to extend this more perfect Species of Knowledge beyond these Bounds are mere Sophistry and Illusion.
In apartments and cottages, on the street and in the train... I listen... More and more, I turn into one large ear, always turning to another person.
War is the continuation of politics by other means.
For me, if I have done my duty, the continued approbation of Congress and the Marine Committee will make me rich indeed, and far more than reward me for a life of service devoted from principles of philanthropy, to support the dignity of human nature.
Talk of the devil, and his horns appear.
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