Man must be classed among the brutes, for he is still a very awkward and salacious biped. What shape he will assume in the future is vague. There are many traits of early man he has lost, and it is plain that he is much more given to falsehood, robbery and lawsuits than the primitive. The first two-legged man scratched himself because he had an itch. Men now lie and steal for this pleasure. Primeval natures wallowed without thought, but soon as men began thinking how pleasant it was to rub themselves and to have deliriums from mud, they employed their minds to achieve what paleolithic mankind did without being lascivious.
Men lie, not alone for profit, but to root in Circe’s mire. No pigmy or cave-dweller wears more bizarre or dirty raiment than present-day man. He is often as offensive as the gland on the back of the Brazil peccary. He would rather tell a lie than the truth because his sole purpose is to be a grub.
He is the most ridiculous beast on the earth, and the reason for this is his mind and his pudendum. He sacks nations, or throws away his reason to see the petticoat of Aspasia or Helen empurpled by murex or the lichen at Madeira. The procreative organ in the camel is behind, but in man it is in front, and unless he is too fat to look over his belly, he pays more attention to this gibbous organ than to his arms, his talus, or anything else. He frequently forgets how his arms look, and is surprised to find a wen on his jaw, and he rarely knows whether his pupils are brown or ochreous, but he is always mindful of his testes hanging between his legs like folly.
In the Book of Enoch the scribe says that the first twolegged creatures had the private parts of great studs, and it may well be that Methuselah and Jared and Mahalalel were mountains and that from their middle hung hills which were their organs of generation. Otherwise, it is impossible for one to imagine how they could live for nine hundred years without wearing out their genitals. It is known that Og, King of Bashan, had an iron bedstead seven cubits long, and that the giants of Anak had six fingers.
Adam bare stones long before he begat Seth. Human life began as procreative mud, and later man was a shark with a human face. There was a human species with a lion’s mouth and the legs of a giraffe, for anterior to the neolithic period diverse animals mingled. Many of our traits are found in the countenance of the bear and in the lip of the pard. The story that the pigmies were chased from the River Strymon by cranes is also a fable of our bird origin.
Trink, trink, Brüderlein, trink Lass doch die Sorgen zu Haus
Die Befindlichkeit ist eine der existenzialen Strukturen, in denen sich das Sein des »Da« hält. Gleichursprünglich mit ihr konstituiert dieses Sein das Verstehen. Befindlichkeit hat je ihr Verständnis, wenn auch nur so, daß sie es niederhält. Verstehen ist immer gestimmtes.
Wenn wir dieses als fundamentales Existenzial interpretieren, dann zeigt sich damit an, daß dieses Phänomen als Grundmodus des Seins des Daseins begriffen wird. »Verstehen« dagegen im Sinne einer möglichen Erkenntnisart unter anderen, etwa unterschieden von »Erklären«, muß mit diesem als existenziales Derivat des primären, das Sein des Da überhaupt mitkonstituierenden Verstehens interpretiert werden.
Die bisherige Untersuchung ist denn auch schon auf dieses ursprüngliche Verstehen gestoßen, ohne daß sie es ausdrücklich in das Thema einrücken ließ. Das Dasein ist existierend sein Da, besagt einmal: Welt ist »da«; deren Da-sein ist das In-sein. Und dieses ist imgleichen »da« und zwar als das, worumwillen das Dasein ist. Im Worumwillen ist das existierende In-der-Welt-sein als solches erschlossen, welche Erschlossenheit Verstehen genannt wurde1. Im Verstehen des Worumwillen ist die darin gründende Bedeutsamkeit miterschlossen. Die Erschlossenheit des Verstehens betrifft als die von Worumwillen und Bedeutsamkeit gleichursprünglich das volle In-der-Welt-sein. Bedeutsamkeit ist das, woraufhin Welt als solche erschlossen ist. Worumwillen und Bedeutsamkeit sind im Dasein erschlossen, besagt: Dasein ist Seiendes, dem es als In-der-Welt-sein um es selbst geht.
Wir gebrauchen zuweilen in ontischer Rede den Ausdruck »etwas verstehen« in der Bedeutung von »einer Sache vorstehen können«, »ihr gewachsen sein«, »etwas können«. Das im Verstehen als Existenzial Gekonnte ist kein Was, sondern das Sein als Existieren. Im Verstehen liegt existenzial die Seinsart des Daseins als Sein-können. Dasein ist nicht ein Vorhandenes, das als Zugabe noch besitzt, etwas zu können, sondern es ist primär Möglichsein. Dasein ist je das, was es sein kann und wie es seine Möglichkeit ist. Das wesenhafte Möglichsein des Daseins betrifft die charakterisierten Weisen des Besorgens der »Welt«, der Fürsorge für die anderen und in all dem und immer schon das Seinkönnen zu ihm selbst, umwillen seiner. Das Möglichsein, das je das Dasein existenzial ist, unterscheidet sich ebensosehr von der leeren, logischen Möglichkeit wie von der Kontingenz eines Vorhandenen, sofern mit diesem das und jenes »passieren« kann. Als modale Kategorie der Vorhandenheit bedeutet Möglichkeit das noch nicht Wirkliche und das nicht jemals Notwendige. Sie charakterisiert das nur Mögliche. Sie ist ontologisch niedriger als Wirklichkeit und Notwendigkeit. Die Möglichkeit als Existenzial dagegen ist die ur-1 Vgl. § 18,S. 85 ff.
Meide den Kummer und meide den Schmerz Dann ist das Leben ein Scherz, Meide den Kummer und meide den Schmerz Ja, dann ist das Leben ein Scherz!
Instead of man striving for a bright present in the world, for a solar and sparkling existence, instead of living for himself – not in the sense of selfishness, but of inner growth – he became a sinful and impotent slave of the reality outside
„Oamenii muncesc în general prea mult pentru a mai putea fi ei înşişi. Munca este un blestem. Iar omul a făcut din acest blestem o voluptate. A munci din toate forţele numai pentru muncă, a găsi o bucurie într-un efort care nu duce decât la realizări irelevante, a concepe că te poţi realiza numai printr-o muncă obiectivă şi neîncetată, iată ceea ce este revoltător şi ininteligibil. Munca susţinută şi neîncetată tâmpeşte, trivializează şi impersonalizează. Ea deplasează centrul de preocupare şi interes din zona subiectivă întro zonă obiectivă a lucrurilor, într-un plan fad de obiectivitate. Omul nu se interesează atunci de destinul său personal, de educaţia lui lăuntrică, de intensitatea unor fosforescente interne şi de realizarea unei prezente iradiante, ci de fapte, de lucruri. Munca adevărată, care ar fi o activitate de continuă transfigurare, a devenit o activitate de exteriorizare, de ieşire din centrul fiinţei. Este caracteristic că în lumea modernă munca indică o activitate exclusiv exterioară. De aceea, prin ea omul nu se realizează, ci realizează. Faptul că fiecare om trebuie să aibă o carieră, să intre într-o formă de viaţă care aproape niciodată nu-i convine, este expresia acestei tendinţe de imbecilizare prin muncă. Să munceşti pentru ca să trăieşti, iată o fatalitate care la om e mai dureroasă decât la animal. Căci la acesta activitatea este atât de organică, încât el n-o separă de existenta sa proprie, pe când omul îşi dă seama de plusul considerabil pe care-l adaugă fiinţei sale complexul de forme al muncii. In frenezia muncii, la om se manifestă una din tendinţele lui de a iubi răul, când acesta este fatal şi frecvent. Şi în muncă omul a uitat de el însuşi. Dar n-a uitat ajungând la naivitatea simplă şi dulce, ci la o exteriorizare vecină cu imbecilitatea. Prin muncă a devenit din subiect obiect, adică un animal, cu defectul de a fi mai putin sălbatic. In loc ca omul să tindă la o prezentă strălucitoare în lume, la o existentă solară şi sclipitoare, în loc să trăiască pentru el însuşi – nu în sens de egoism, ci de creştere interioară – a ajuns un rob păcătos şi impotent al realităţii din afară.”
“People generally work too much to be themselves. Work is a curse. And man made this curse a pleasure. To work with all one’s strength only for work, to find joy in an effort that leads only to irrelevant achievements, to conceive that one can achieve oneself only through objective and unceasing work, this is what is revolting and unintelligible. Sustained and incessant work dulls, trivializes and impersonalizes. It moves the center of concern and interest from the subjective area to an objective area of things, in a bland plane of objectivity. Man is then not interested in his personal destiny, in his inner education, in the intensity of some internal phosphorescence and in the realization of a radiant present, but in facts, in things. True work, which would be an activity of continuous transfiguration, has become an activity of externalization, of leaving the center of being. It is characteristic that in the modern world work indicates an exclusively external activity. Therefore, through it man does not realize himself, but achieves. The fact that every man has to have a career, to enter into a form of life that almost never suits him, is the expression of this tendency to become imbecile through work. To work in order to live, here is a fatality that is more painful for humans than for animals. Because for him the activity is so organic that he does not separate it from his own existence, while man realizes the considerable plus that the complex of forms of work adds to his being. In the frenzy of work, man manifests one of his tendencies to love evil, when it is fatal and frequent. And in work man forgot about himself. But he did not forget, reaching simple and sweet naivety, but an externalization bordering on imbecility. Through work he became an object from a subject, i.e. an animal, with the defect of being less wild. Instead of man striving for a bright present in the world, for a solar and sparkling existence, instead of living for himself – not in the sense of selfishness, but of inner growth – he became a sinful and impotent slave of the reality outside .”
Consisting of 18 books, or parvas, this story revolves around the conflict between two factions of cousins, the Kauravas and Pandavas, for the throne of Hastinapura. It includes the famous Bhagavad Gita, a sacred Hindu scripture and a philosophical conversation between Prince Arjuna and Lord Krishna. The epic explores various themes such as duty, righteousness, family, war, and the nature of reality. It contains many notable characters: Krishna, Arjuna, Yudhishthira, Bhima, Nakula, Sahadeva, Draupadi, Duryodhana, and Karna. Known for its narrative, the moral, and philosophical dilemmas presented; it has a profound influence on Indian culture, literature, and religious beliefs.
The daughter of the river was named Girika and the king made her his wife. Once, the time for intercourse arrived and Vasu’s wife, Girika, having purified herself by bathing at the fertile time, informed her husband about her state. But on that very day, his ancestors came to him and asked the best of kings and wisest of men to kill some deer. Thinking that the command of his ancestors should be followed, he went out to hunt, thinking of Girika, who was exceedingly beautiful and like Shri herself. He was so excited that the semen was discharged in the beautiful forest and wishing to save it, the king of the earth collected it in the leaf of a tree. The lord thought that his semen should not be wasted in vain and that his wife’s fertile period should not pass barren. Then the king thought about this many times and the best of kings firmly decided that his semen would be productive, since the semen was issued when his queen’s time was right. Learned in the subtleties of dharma and artha, the king consecrated the semen, which was productive for producing progeny, and addressed a hawk that was seated nearby. ‘O amiable one! Please take this seed to my wife Girika. She is in her season now. The swift hawk took it from him and flew speedily through the sky.
The Adi Parva introduces the key characters and provides the background leading up to the great Kurukshetra War. It begins with the sage Vyasa narrating the story to the divine sage Narada. Vyasa, the author of the Mahabharata, is the son of the sage Parashara and Satyavati. He is requested by Brahma, the creator of the universe, to compose the epic to enlighten and guide humanity.
“You may not know it, my darling,” spieked the great bird-man, “but long before these people build cities, there were others in the Earth – the ones who came after the Ancient World fell. They went far beyond the limitations of the human form. They conquered death. They did not have sickness. They did not need love. They sought to be abstractions lying outside of time. And they died, E’lamelanie – they died terribly. Some became monsters, preying on the remnants of true men for reasons which ordinary men could not even begin to understand. Others were like oysters, wrapped up in their own sainthood. They had all forgotten that humanness is itself imperfection and corruption, that what is perfect is no longer understandable. We have the fragments of the Word, and we are truer to the deep traditions of people than people themselves are, but we must never be foolish enough to look for perfection in this life or to count on our own powers to make us really different from what we are. You and I are animals, darling, not even real people, but people do not understand the teaching of Joan, that whatever seems human is human. It is the word which quickens, not the shape or the blood or the texture of flesh or hair or feathers. And there is that power which you and I do not name, but which we love and cherish because we need it more than do the people on the surface. Great beliefs always come out of the sewers of cities, not out of the towers of the ziggurats. Furthermore, we are discarded animals, not used ones. All of us down here are the rubbish which mankind has thrown away and has forgotten. We have a great advantage in this because we know from the very beginning of our lives that we are worthless. And why are we worthless? Because a higher standard and a higher truth says that we are – the conventional law and the unwritten customs of mankind. But I feel love for you, my daughter, and you have love for me. We know that everything which loves has a value in itself, and that therefore this worthlessness of underpeople is wrong. We are forced to look beyond the minute and the hour to the place where no clocks work and no day dawns. There is a world outside of time, and it is to that which we appeal. I know that you have a love for the devotional life, my child, and I commend you for it, but it would be a sorry faith which waited for passing travelers or which believed that a miracle or two could set the nature of things right and whole. The people on the surface think they have gone beyond the old problems, because they do not have buildings which they call churches or temples, and they do not have professional religious men within their communities. But the higher power and the large problems still wait for all men, whether men like it or not. Today, Believing among mankind is a ridiculous hobby, tolerated by the Instrumentality because the Believers are unimportant and weak, but mankind has moments of enormous passion which will come again and in which we will share. So don’t you wait for your hero beyond the stars. If you have a good devotional life within you, it is already here, waiting to be watered by your tears and ploughed up by your hard, clear thoughts. And if you don’t have a devotional life, there are good lives outside.
Even in a large city, the streets after a certain advanced hour of night are relatively still. What one hears and sees are apparitions and sounds to which both our eyes and our ears have long since grown accustomed. There are none of the usual sounds. People are at home, sitting around the cozy family table, or else in bars hunkered over their beers and political discussions, or in the concert hall, reverently listening to the pieces of music being performed, or at the theater, following the suspenseful goings-on upon the brightly lit stage, or else they are standing in pairs, or in groups of three or seven on some melancholy street corner, delving into profundities, or else perhaps aimlessly walking in some direction or other. “Hey there, car!” another cries out, and somewhere there might be a poet buried in his isolated room, drunkards wandering in wretched bliss from one still to another, bawling and harassing the passersby; perhaps a horse pulling a hackney cab is collapsing somewhere, a woman fainting, a scoundrel being apprehended by the always vigilant and safety-restoring police force—and suddenly someone shouts: “Fire!” Quite close by, it seems, a fire has broken out. People were just standing around, indecisive and bored, about to accuse the hour of lacking all interest and in any case starting to feel chilled, and suddenly here’s this great novelty being presented, something unexpected to kindle our enthusiasm. Everyone lurches forward and without realizing it has already begun a conversation with whoever happens to be standing alongside, cheeks are glowing, and now people are even starting to leap and run. They’re suddenly doing something they haven’t tried in a good two years. All at once the world appears changed, expanded, thicker, and more tangible.
A metropolis is a giant spiderweb of squares, streets, bridges, buildings, gardens, and wide, long avenues. When a fire breaks out, only the neighbors closest to the scene of the fire know of the conflagration. Indeed, in a huge city like this there can be three, four, or even five large fires in the course of a single night, far apart from one another, each one representing a disaster in its own right, an “event,” without one having even the slightest impact on the others: five suspenseful chapters of a novel, each of them self-contained, without links to the other. A metropolis is a wave-filled ocean that for the most part is still largely unknown to its own inhabitants, an impenetrable forest, an opulent, overgrown, huge, forgotten, or half-forgotten park, a thing that has been built up too extensively for it to ever again be oriented within itself. But now dozens of people are hurriedly racing to the scene of the fire. They now know approximately where the blaze is.
And now you turn a corner and the fire is right in front of you, it looks as if it wants to leap forward to greet you; an entire street is brightly, garishly lit up by it, it resembles a sunset in the distant south, ten evenings ablaze, a host of suns setting in unison. You see the façades of buildings looking like pale-yellow paper, and the bright red glow of the fire approaches, a thick, glowing, wounded red, and beside it the street lanterns look like feebly burning damp matches. And cries ring out. It seems as if trumpets are sounding everywhere, but this is a false impression, everything is relatively quiet, it’s just that you are running, and beside you, before you and behind, others are now loping as well, and hackney cabs are trotting past, and the electric tram passes by. There is something ordinary about all of this, yet at the same time something incomprehensible. Suddenly everyone stops short as if standing before a fairy tale. What now appears resembles a bomb effect dreamed up by an enterprising theater director.
