“Happy the eyes that can close”

The Afrikaner has nowhere to go, and thats why he would rather destroy himself than capitulate.

Building on the mistakes of the past and the energy generated by reconciliation to create a new future.

There is a lovely road that runs from Ixopo into the hills.

What broke in a man when he could bring himself to kill another?

I couldn’t face that question. (Ah, But Your Land Is Beautiful)

For it is the dawn that has come, as it has come for a thousand centuries, never failing.

People hurry home past him, to places safe from danger.

Something deep is touched here, something that is good and deep.

One thing is about to be finished, but here is something that is only begun. And while I live it will continue

Let him not love the earth too deeply. Let him not laugh too gladly when the water runs through his fingers, nor stand too silent when the setting sun makes red the veld with fire.

What broke when he could bring himself to thrust down the knife into the warm flesh, to bring down the axe on the living head, to cleave down between the seeing eyes, to shoot the gun that would drive death into the beating heart?

It is not permissible for us to go on destroying the family life when we know that we are destroying it.

For our Lord suffered. And I come to believe that he suffered, not to save us from suffering, but to teach us how to bear suffering. For he knew that there is no life without suffering.

And money is not something to go mad about …

But sorrow is better than fear. For fear impoverishes always, while sorrow may enrich.

Such lightening and thunder will come there has never been seen before, bringing death and destruction.

Nothing appears to be something. The human experience is a senseory organ for the divine self. Through these eyes, the divine gets to see itself in form.

My professional persona never loosens its grip, keeping an eye on me at all times.

A kitten is the most irresistible comedian in the world. Its wide-open eyes gleam with wonder and mirth. It darts madly at nothing at all, and then, as though suddenly checked in the pursuit, prances sideways on its hind legs with ridiculous agility and zeal.

There is still vitality under the winter snow, even though to the casual eye it seems to be dead.

When I think of art I think of beauty. Beauty is the mystery of life. It is not in the eye it is in the mind. In our minds there is awareness of perfection.

Place (or put) a spider on top of a mountain, it will only try to catch flies; alas, they are many those who, in the figurative meaning, have spider’s eyes.

Re-vision – the act of looking back, of seeing with fresh eyes, of entering an old text from a new critical direction – is for woman more than a chapter in cultural history: it is an act of survival.

Re-vision — the act of looking back, of seeing with fresh eyes, of entering an old text from a new critical direction – is for women more than a chapter in cultural history: it is an act of survival.