In speaking of this desire for our own faroff country, which we find in ourselves even now, I feel a certain shyness. I am almost committing an indecency. I am trying to rip open the inconsolable secret in each one of you—the secret which hurts so much that you take your revenge on it by calling it names like Nostalgia and Romanticism and Adolescence … Wordsworth’s expedient was to identify it with certain moments in his own past. But all this is a cheat. If Wordsworth had gone back to those moments in the past, he would not have found the thing itself, but only the reminder of it; what he remembered would turn out to be itself a remembering. The books or the music in which we thought the beauty was located will betray us if we trust to them; it was not in them, it only came through them, and what came through them was longing. These things—the beauty, the memory of our own past—are good images of what we really desire; but if they are mistaken for the thing itself … for they are not the thing itself; they are only the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never yet visited.
– C. S. Lewis (Thank you, veareflejos)

(via crashinglybeautiful)

In speaking of this desire for our own faroff country, which we find in ourselves even now, I feel a certain shyness. I am almost committing an indecency. I am trying to rip open the inconsolable secret in each one of you—the secret which hurts so much that you take your revenge on it by calling it names like Nostalgia and Romanticism and Adolescence … Wordsworth’s expedient was to identify it with certain moments in his own past. But all this is a cheat. If Wordsworth had gone back to those moments in the past, he would not have found the thing itself, but only the reminder of it; what he remembered would turn out to be itself a remembering. The books or the music in which we thought the beauty was located will betray us if we trust to them; it was not in them, it only came through them, and what came through them was longing. These things—the beauty, the memory of our own past—are good images of what we really desire; but if they are mistaken for the thing itself … for they are not the thing itself; they are only the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never yet visited.
– C. S. Lewis (Thank you, veareflejos)

(via crashinglybeautiful)

Posted 4 months ago & Filed under travel, beauty, philosophy, 45 notes

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    Lewis (Thank you, veareflejos)
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About:

90 Years is a webzine devoted to glimmering art, design, ideas and people.

Look, the way things are going, we might live for 90 years. Or more.

It's a lot of time to fill, and the opiates we used to rely on are wavering.

Time to try something new. We at 90 Years are packing ourselves full of all that glimmers, to heighten our experience instead of dulling ourselves to it.

Follow along as we explore the reaches of existence, deep caves of sunkissed seas.

Submit what means something to you, ask about anything, and share, to spread the glimmering.

"Art, like the universe itself ... has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival." C.S. Lewis