Читать книгу A Peculiar Kind of Immigrant's Son - Sergio Troncoso - Страница 7

“What, then, is truth? A mobile army of metaphors, metonyms, and anthropomorphisms—in short, a sum of human relations which have been enhanced, transposed, and embellished poetically and rhetorically, and which after long use seem firm, canonical, and obligatory to a people: truths are illusions about which one has forgotten that this is what they are; metaphors which are worn out and without sensuous power; coins which have lost their pictures and now matter only as metal, no longer as coins.”

—FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE, On Truth and Lie in an Extra-Moral Sense

“All you need now is to stand at the window and let your rhythmical sense open and shut, open and shut, boldly and freely, until one thing melts into another, until the taxis are dancing with the daffodils, until a whole has been made from all the separate fragments.”

—VIRGINIA WOOLF, Letter to a Young Poet