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Time, Which Runs Through The World Like An Endless Tinsel Thread, Seemed To Pass Through The Centre Of This Room And Through The Centre Of These People And Suddenly To Pause And Petrify, Stiff, Still And Glittering... And The Objects In The Room Drew A Little Closer Together.

-Robert Musil

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Time, Which Runs Through

Robert Musil

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Time, Which Runs Through The World Like An Endless Tinsel Thread, Seemed To Pass Through The Centre Of This Room And Through The Centre Of These People And Suddenly To Pause And Petrify, Stiff, Still And Glittering... And The Objects In The Room Drew A Little Closer Together.

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We Do Not Have Too Much Intellect And Too Little Soul, But Too Little Intellect In Matters Of The Soul.

There Is Nothing In This World As Invisible As A Monument

... We Engage In Politics Because We Don't Know Anything. This Is Clearly Revealed In The Way We Go About It. Our Parties Exist From A Fear Of Theory. The Voter Fears That One Idea Can Always Be Contradicted By Another. Therefore The Parties Reciprocally Defend Themselves Against The Few Old Ideas They Have Inherited. They Don't Live From What They Promise, But From Frustrating The Promises Of Others. This Is Their Silent Community Of Interests.

It Is, All In All, A Historic Error To Believe That The Master Makes The School; The Students Make It!

It Is Reality That Awakens Possibilities, And Nothing Would Be More Perverse Than To Deny It.

What Is Perceptible To One’s Mistrust Is The Cut-and-dried Way That Life Is Divided Up And The Ready-made Form It Assumes, The Ever-recurring Sameness Of It, The Pre-formations Passed Down By Generation After Generation, The Ready-made Language Not Only Of The Tongue But Also Of The Sensations And The Feelings.

Life Forms A Surface That Acts As If It Could Not Be Otherwise, But Under Its Skin Things Are Pounding And Pulsing.

... The Genius Never Makes Anything New, But Always Something That Is Just Different, And The Average Talents Provide Him The Possibility Within Which His Genius Condenses Into Achievements.

If There Is A Sense Of Reality, There Must Also Be A Sense Of Possibility.

But How Do I Get To Having To Write A Book?... It Was A Mother Who Bore Me, Not An Inkwell!

Have We Not Huddled In Bunkers, While Some Premonition Of Tomorrow Hung In The Air And A Comrade Started Singing? Oh, It Felt So Melancholy! And It Was Kitsch.

One Must Conform To The Baseness Of An Age Or Become Neurotic.

Progress Would Be Wonderful - If Only It Would Stop.

The Thought Came To Me That All One Loves In Art Becomes Beautiful. Beauty Is Nothing But The Expression Of The Fact That Something Is Being Loved. Only Thus Could She Be Defined.

Philosophers Are People Who Do Violence, But Have No Army At Their Disposal, And So Subjugate The World By Locking It Into A System.

Clothes, When Abstracted From The Flow Of Present Time And Their Transmogrifying Function On The Human Body, And Seen As Forms In Themselves, Are Strange Tubes And Excrescences Worthy Of Being Classed With Such Facial Decorations As The Ring Through The Nose Or The Lip-stretching Disk. But How Enchanting They Become When Seen Togetherwith The Qualities They Bestow On Their Wearer! What Happens Then Is No Less Than The Infusion, Into Some Tangled Lines On A Piece Of Paper, Of The Meaning Of A Great Word.

We Have Gained Reality And Lost Dream. No More Lounging Under A Tree And Peering At The Sky Between One's Big And Second Toes; There's Work To Be Done. To Be Efficient, One Cannot Be Hungry And Dreamy But Must Eat Steak And Keep Moving.

Is Not Art A Tool We Employ To Peel The Kitsch Off Life? Layer By Layer Art Strips Life Bare. The More Abstract It Gets, The More Transparent The Air Is. Can It Be That The Farther It Is Removed From Life, The Clearer Art Becomes?

Anyone Who Still Wants To Experience Fairytales These Days Can’t Afford To Dither When It Comes To Using Their Brains.

That The Will Of The People Can Be Established By Voting For Democrats Is, Of Course, A Delusion. Yet When Considering A Non-threatening System For Deciding Between Diverse Interests, Then Voting, Of Course, Can Be Regarded As A Humane And Civilized Process.

Each Person Is A Graveyard Of His Thoughts. They Are Most Beautiful For Us In The Moment Of Their Birth; Later We Can Often Sense A Deep Pain That They Leave Us Indifferent Where Earlier They Enchanted Us.

Wordsworth's Particular Grace, His Charisma, As Theologians Say, Has Been Granted In Equal Measure To So Very Few Men Since Time Was--to Plato And Who Else? The Crucial Thing Is Never What We Do, But Always What We Do Right After That. What Matters Is Always The Next Step!

It's Not The Genius Who Is 100 Years Ahead Of His Time But Average Man Who Is 100 Years Behind It.

A Man Who Wants The Truth Becomes A Scientist; A Man Who Wants To Give Free Play To His Subjectivity May Become A Writer; But What Should A Man Do Who Wants Something In Between?

True' And 'false' Are The Evasions Of People Who Never Want To Arrive At A Decision. Truth Is Something Without End.

And While Faith Based On Theological Reasoning Is Today Universally Engaged In A Bitter Struggle With Doubt And Resistance From The Prevailing Brand Of Rationalism, It Does Seem That The Naked Fundamental Experience Itself, That Primal Seizure Of Mystic Insight, Stripped Of Religious Concepts, Perhaps No Longer To Be Regarded As A Religious Experience At All, Has Undergone An Immense Expansion And Now Forms The Soul Of That Complex Irrationalism That Haunts Our Era Like A Night Bird Lost In The Dawn.

His Answers Were Quite Often Like That. When She Spoke Of Beauty, He Spoke Of The Fatty Tissue Supporting The Epidermis. When She Mentioned Love, He Responded With The Statistical Curve That Indicates The Automatic Rise And Fall In The Annual Birthrate. When She Spoke Of The Great Figures In Art, He Traced The Chain Of Borrowings That Links These Figures To One Another.

The Difference Between A Healthy Person And One Who Is Mentally Ill Is The Fact That The Healthy One Has All The Mentall Illnesses, And The Mentally Ill Person Has Only One.

Only In The Most Unusual Cases Is It Useful To Determine Whether A Book Is Good Or Bad; For It Is Just As Rare For It To Be One Or The Other. It Is Usually Both.

I Am Not Only Convinced That What I Say Is False, But Also That What One Might Say Against It Is False. Despite This, One Must Begin To Talk About It. In Such A Case The Truth Lies Not In The Middle, But Rather All Around, Like A Sack, Which, With Each New Opinion One Stuffs Into It, Changes Its Form, And Becomes More And More Firm.

We Sometimes Have A Flash Of Understanding That Amounts To The Insight Of Genius, And Yet It Slowly Withers, Even In Our Hands - Like A Flower. The Form Remains, But The Colours And The Fragrance Are Gone.

I Also Believe That Few People Remain Completely Untouched By The Thought That Instead Of The Life They Lead There Might Also Be Another, Where All Actions Proceed From A Very Personal State Of Excitement. Where Actions Have Meanings, Not Just Causes. And Where A Person, To Use A Trivial Word, Is Happy, And Not Just Nervously Tormenting Himself.

You Proclaim That One Should Die For The Highest Virtues, Because You Take It For Granted That Nobody's Been Living For Them, Not Even For A Single Hour.

The Thoughts Of My Emotionally So Disturbed Days Must Be Found Again, Shifted And Developed Further. Here And There Something Of The Loose Remarks I Make Must Be Used, But Only When It Finds My Attention Again.

Writing [for The Novelist] Is Not An Activity, But A Condition. That Is Why One Simply Can't Resume The Work When One Has A Job And A Free Half-day. Reading Is The Conveyance Of This Condition.

For Only Fools, Fanatics, And Mental Cases Can Stand Living At The Highest Pitch Of Soul; A Sane Person Must Be Content With Declaring That Life Would Not Be Worth Living Without A Spark Of That Mysterious Fire.

Ideology Is: Intellectual Ordering Of The Feelings; An Objective Connection Among Them That Makes The Subjective Connection Easier.

... The Structure Of A Page Of Good Prose Is, Analyzed Logically, Not Something Frozen But The Vibrating Of A Bridge, Which Changes With Every Step One Takes On It.

Time, Which Runs Through The World Like An Endless Tinsel Thread, Seemed To Pass Through The Centre Of This Room And Through The Centre Of These People And Suddenly To Pause And Petrify, Stiff, Still And Glittering... And The Objects In The Room Drew A Little Closer Together.

And What Would You Do, ... If You Could Rule The World For A Day? I Suppose I Would Have No Choice But To Abolish Reality.

You See How Wrong I Go, How Ridiculous I'm Making Myself In Your Eyes By Keeping On Guessing Wrong Like This! Doesn't That Help You To Come Out With It? Come On Now!

What Is The Use Of Good Painting? We Want A Spell Cast Upon The Optical Part Of Our Existence! We Seldom Really See The World, But When We Do, We Become As Still As A Picture.

Every Word Wants To Be Taken Literally, Else It Decays Into A Lie. But One Mustn't Take Any Word Literally, Else The World Becomes A Madhouse.

And Since The Possession Of Qualities Presupposes That One Takes A Certain Pleasure In Their Reality, All This Gives Us A Glimpse Of How It May All Of A Sudden Happen To Someone Who Cannot Summon Up Any Sense Of Reality — Even In Relation To Himself — That One Day He Appears To Himself As A Man Without Qualities.

Hardly Anyone Still Reads Nowadays. People Make Use Of The Writer Only In Order To Work Off Their Own Excess Energy On Him In A Perverse Manner, In The Form Of Agreement Or Disagreement.

Don't You Know That Every Perfect Life Would Be The End Of Art?

Mathematics Is The Source Of A Wicked Intellect That, While Making Man The Lord Of The Earth, Also Makes Him The Slave Of The Machine.

A Politician Who Climbs High Over The Bodies Of The Slain Is Described As Vile Or Great According To The Degree Of His Success.

Every Day There Comes A Moment When A Person Lays His Hands In His Lap And All His Busyness Collapses Like Ashes. The Work Accomplished Is, From The Soul's Point Of View, Entirely Imaginary.

It Was The Tenderness Mingled With Melancholy Which We Bring To A Time That Belongs Irrevocably To The Past, When A Pale, Delicate Shadow Rises From It Bearing The Lilies Of The Dead, And In It We Find A Forgotten Likeness To Ourselves. And That Faint, Wistful Shadow, That Pale Scent, Seemed To Vanish Away Into A Wide, Full, Warm Stream - The Life That Now Lay Open Before Him.

Stupidity Is Active In Every Direction, And Can Dress Up In All The Clothes Of Truth. Truth, On The Other Hand, Has For Every Occasion Only One Dress And One Path, And Is Always At A Disadvantage.

... All Professional Ideologies Are High-minded. Hunters, For Instance, Would Not Dream Of Calling Themselves The Butchers Of The Woods.

The Proverbial Notion Of Historical Distance Consists In Our Having Lost Ninety-five Of Every Hundred Original Facts, So The Remaining Ones Can Be Arranged However One Likes.

...love Must Be Regarded As One Of The Religious And Dangerous Experiences, Because It Lifts People Out Of The Arms Of Reason And Sets Them Afloat With No Ground Under Their Feet.

... There Is No Such Thing As A Rational World And A Separate Irrational World, But Only One World Containing Both.

It Will Always Be The Same Possibilities, In Sum Or On The Average, That Go On Repeating Themselves Until A Man Comes Along Who Does Not Value The Actuality Above Idea. It Is He Who First Gives The New Possibilities Their Meaning, Their Direction, And He Awakens Them.

A Man Can't Be Angry At His Own Time Without Suffering Some Damage.

A Particularly Fine Head On A Man Usually Means That He Is Stupid; Particularly Deep Philosophers Are Usually Shallow Thinkers; In Literature, Talents Not Much Above The Average Are Usually Regarded By Their Contemporaries As Geniuses.

There Is, In Short, No Great Idea That Stupidity Could Not Put To Its Own Uses [....] The Truth By Comparison, Has Only One Appearance And Only One Path, And Is Always At A Disadvantage.

... For The Modern Soul, For Which It Is Mere Child's Play To Bridge Oceans And Continents, There Is Nothing So Impossible As To Find The Contact With The Souls Dwelling Just Around The Corner.

[...] A Number Of Flawed Individuals Can Often Add Up To A Brilliant Social Unit.

... Nothing Is More Human Than Substituting The Quantity Of Words And Actions For Their Character. But Using Imprecise Words Is Very Similar To Using Lots Of Words, For The More Imprecise A Word Is, The Greater The Area It Covers.

The Thought Is Not Something That Observes An Inner Event, But, Rather It Is This Inner Event Itself. We Do Not Reflect On Something, But, Rather, Something Thinks Itself In Us.

In Their Field They [mathematicians] Do What We Ought To Be Doing In Ours. Therein Lies The Significant Lesson ... Of Their Existence. They Are An Analogy For The Intellectual Of The Future.

One Does What One Is; One Becomes What One Does.

It Is Life That Does The Thinking All Around Us, Forming With Playful Ease The Connections Our Reason Can Only Laboriously Patch Together Piecemeal, And Never To Such Kaleidoscopic Effect.

He Who Is Allowed To Do As He Likes Will Soon Run His Head Into A Brick Wall Out Of Sheer Frustration.

Life Is To Blame For Everything.

Mathematics Is The Bold Luxury Of Pure Reason, One Of The Few That Remain Today.

The Truth Is Not A Crystal That Can Be Slipped Into One's Pocket, But An Endless Current Into Which One Falls Headlong.

To Love Something As An Artist ... Means To Be Shaken Not By Its Ultimate Value Or Lack Of Value, But By A Side Of It That Suddenly Opens Up. Where Art Has Value It Shows Things That Few Have Seen. It's Conquering, Not Pacifying.

Anything That Endures Over Time Sacrifices Its Ability To Make An Impression.

... The Novel Is Called Upon Like No Other Art Form To Incorporate The Intellectual Content Of An Age.

Strong Emotional Experiences Are For The Most Part Impersonal. Anyone Who Has Hated Another Person So Much That Only Chance Stands Between That Person And Death Knows This, As Does Whoever Has Fallen Into The Catastrophe Of A Deep Depression, Anyone Who Has Loved A Woman To The Dregs, Anyone Who Has Beaten Others Bloody Or Ever Come Up Behind Another Person With Muscles Trembling. "losing One's Head," Language Calls It. Emotional Experience Is, In Itself, Poor In Qualities; Qualities Are Brought To It By The Person Who Has The Experience.

With Its Claims To Profundity, Boldness And Originality, Thinking Still Limits Itself Provisionally To The Exclusively Rational And Scientific. ... As Soon As It Lays Hold Of The Feelings, It Becomes Spirit.

Layer By Layer Art Strips Life Bare.

The Secret Of A Good Librarian Is That He Never Reads Anything More Of The Literature In His Charge Than The Title And The Table Of Contents. Anyone Who Lets Himself Go And Starts Reading A Book Is Lost As A Librarian...he's Bound To Lose Perspective.

Scientific Reason, With Its Strict Conscience, Its Lack Of Prejudice, And Its Determination To Question Every Result Again The Moment It Might Lead To The Least Intellectual Advantage, Does In An Area Of Secondary Interest What We Ought To Be Doing With The Basic Questions Of Life.

... There Is A Particular Propensity In The World For People, Wherever They Appear In Great Numbers, To Permit Themselves Collectively Everything That Would Be Forbidden Them Individually.

An Impractical Man--which He Not Only Seems To Be, But Really Is--will Always Be Unreliable And Unpredictable In His Dealings With Others. He Will Engage In Actions That Mean Something Else To Him Than To Others, But He Is At Peace With Himself About Everything As Long As He Can Make It All Come Together In A Fine Idea.

All Still Lifes Are Actually Paintings Of The World On The Sixth Day Of Creation, When God And The World Were Alone Together, Without Man!

The Restricting Of Intellectual And Spiritual Needs To The Mania Of Progress

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