[meaning an medh leave it]
På jobbet pratade jag i telefon med en man, som at first faktiskt framstod att vara snuskigt rik - på RIKTIGT. Sanningen kom fram när han sa: Vet du, den rikaste människan på jorden, det är den som kan... BLA BLA BLA Gud. BLA BLA BLA. Inre frid. BLA BLA BLA Je-hova. BLA BLA BLA Våga tilltala Gud med hans riktigt namn etc. Han hade uppenbarligen valt rätt väg i bilden från Påls inlägg. Jag spelade med i dryga sju minuter, och drog liknelsen med Indiana Jones som vanligt: Man måste våga ta till sig gud annars uppenbarar det sig ingen bro över stupet. Den gick hem som vanligt. Men jag tycker inte det är lika kul längre. Man är inte miljonär om man tror på Gud, man ska inte öppna dörren åt Jehovas vittnen (unless man har för avsikt att spela, så man får material till en låttext t.ex. - HAHA TEXTTEX), och meningen är livet är inget annat än, quote:
By what conceivable right can anyone demand that a human being exist for anything but his own joy? Every one of them wants it. Every part of him wants it. But they never find it. I wonder why. They whine and say they don't understand the meaning of life. There's a particular kind of people that I despise. Those who seek some sort of a higher purpose or 'universal goal,' who don't know what to live for, who moan that they must 'find themselves.' You hear it all around us. That seems to be the official bromide of our century. Every book you open. Every drooling self-cenfession. It seems to be the noble thing to confess. I'd think it would be the most shameful one.
... Roark got up, reached out, tore a thick branch off a tree, held it in both hands, one fist closed at each end; then, his wrists and knuckles tensed against the resistance, he bent the branch slowly into an arc. 'Now I can make what I want of it: a bow, a spear, a cane, a railing. That's the meaning of life.'
"Your strength?"
"Your work... The material the earth offers you and what you make of it..."
By what conceivable right can anyone demand that a human being exist for anything but his own joy? Every one of them wants it. Every part of him wants it. But they never find it. I wonder why. They whine and say they don't understand the meaning of life. There's a particular kind of people that I despise. Those who seek some sort of a higher purpose or 'universal goal,' who don't know what to live for, who moan that they must 'find themselves.' You hear it all around us. That seems to be the official bromide of our century. Every book you open. Every drooling self-cenfession. It seems to be the noble thing to confess. I'd think it would be the most shameful one.
... Roark got up, reached out, tore a thick branch off a tree, held it in both hands, one fist closed at each end; then, his wrists and knuckles tensed against the resistance, he bent the branch slowly into an arc. 'Now I can make what I want of it: a bow, a spear, a cane, a railing. That's the meaning of life.'
"Your strength?"
"Your work... The material the earth offers you and what you make of it..."
Kommentarer
Trackback
