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For whatever is truly wondrous and fearful in man, never yet was put into words or books. Options
Daemon
Posted: Sunday, October 4, 2015 12:00:00 AM
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For whatever is truly wondrous and fearful in man, never yet was put into words or books.

Herman Melville (1819-1891)
gerry
Posted: Sunday, October 4, 2015 2:10:11 AM
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the wonder of writing and why man keeps doing so and other keep reading
sureshot
Posted: Sunday, October 4, 2015 2:29:35 AM
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Daemon wrote:
For whatever is truly wondrous and fearful in man, never yet was put into words or books.

Herman Melville (1819-1891)


It is correct to assume that there are never adequate number of words to express one's thoughts. Take the case of movies. Sometimes the actors act out scenes which would take pages to explain and even then justice would not be done to their display of emotions. Sometimes, the converse is also true!
Tdy
Posted: Sunday, October 4, 2015 2:40:11 AM
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Think still confusing..
JUSTIN Excellence
Posted: Sunday, October 4, 2015 4:22:33 AM

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Thanks for the quote Herman. From my study of the ancients, your similar respect for the sacred derived from an awareness of the creative processes of Nature, and it implied a hesitancy to arbitrarily intrude on those processes. To the sanctified consciousness, time and space were themselves sacred, and every atom of creation was part of one joyful chorus, yet maybe wondrous and fearful like you mentioned. In the creation of Time, according to the myths of the native Australians, Africans and Americans, human beings had a specific responsibility in the whole of Nature, which was to provide a living bridge between levels of being.

"The collective consciousness contains the whole of spiritual heritage of mankind's evolution born anew in the brain structure of every individual."
~ Carl Jung (The Structure of the Psyche)
Bully_rus
Posted: Sunday, October 4, 2015 10:22:33 AM
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They mutually enrich each other: the world of books and life itself...
mudbudda669
Posted: Sunday, October 4, 2015 11:57:17 AM

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The writers refrain.
ChristopherJohnson
Posted: Sunday, October 4, 2015 2:06:04 PM

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He wrote one of the most miraculous books in the history of literature.
monamagda
Posted: Sunday, October 4, 2015 5:12:59 PM

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Context from: MOBY DICK; or, THE WHALE
Volume 6,

CHAPTER 110. Queequeg in His Coffin.


Poor Queequeg! when the ship was about half disembowelled, you should have stooped over the hatchway, and peered down upon him there; where, stripped to his woollen drawers, the tattooed savage was crawling about amid that dampness and slime, like a green spotted lizard at the bottom of a well. And a well, or an ice-house, it somehow proved to him, poor pagan; where, strange to say, for all the heat of his sweatings, he caught a terrible chill which lapsed into a fever; and at last, after some days' suffering, laid him in his hammock, close to the very sill of the door of death. How he wasted and wasted away in those few long-lingering days, till there seemed but little left of him but his frame and tattooing. But as all else in him thinned, and his cheek-bones grew sharper, his eyes, nevertheless, seemed growing fuller and fuller; they became of a strange softness of lustre; and mildly but deeply looked out at you there from his sickness, a wondrous testimony to that immortal health in him which could not die, or be weakened. And like circles on the water, which, as they grow fainter, expand; so his eyes seemed rounding and rounding, like the rings of Eternity. An awe that cannot be named would steal over you as you sat by the side of this waning savage, and saw as strange things in his face, as any beheld who were bystanders when Zoroaster died. For whatever is truly wondrous and fearful in man, never yet was put into words or books. And the drawing near of Death, which alike levels all, alike impresses all with a last revelation, which only an author from the dead could adequately tell. So that—let us say it again—no dying Chaldee or Greek had higher and holier thoughts than those, whose mysterious shades you saw creeping over the face of poor Queequeg, as he quietly lay in his swaying hammock, and the rolling sea seemed gently rocking him to his final rest, and the ocean's invisible flood-tide lifted him higher and higher towards his destined heaven.

https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2701/2701-h/2701-h.htm#link2H_4_0002

MANJUICEBUBBLES
Posted: Sunday, October 4, 2015 9:44:56 PM

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People cannot handle the truth. Feigning documents since the dark ages, it's horrible. Man is such a complicated thing.
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