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20:55 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
The month after I saw Mrs O'M. there was an article in the New York Times entitled 'Did Shostakovich Have a Secret?' The 'secret' of Shostakovich, it was suggested-by a Chinese neurologist, Dr Dajue Wang-was the presence of a metallic splinter, a mobile shell-fragment, in his brain, in the temporal horn of the left ventricle. Shostakovich was very reluctant, apparently, to have this removed:
Since the fragment had been there, he said, each time he leaned his head to one side he could hear music. His head was filled with melodies-different each time-which he then made use of when composing.
X-rays allegedly showed the fragment moving around when Shostakovich moved his head, pressing against his 'musical' temporal lobe, when he tilted, producing an infinity of melodies which his genius could use. Dr R.A. Henson, editor of Music and the Brain (1977), expressed deep but not absolute scepticism: 'I would hesitate to affirm that it could not happen.

Oliver Sacks, The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat and Other Clinical Tales, 1985

@темы: sacks, oliver, s, psychology, music, english: anglo-american, 20

20:54 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
And what Mrs O'C. told me, her obvious nostalgia, put me in mind of a poignant story of H.G. Wells, 'The Door in the Wall'. I told her the story. 'That's it,' she said. 'That captures the mood, the feeling, entirely. But my door is real, as my wall was real. My door leads to the lost and forgotten past.

Oliver Sacks, The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat and Other Clinical Tales, 1985

@темы: 20, english-british, english: anglo-american, libri, literature, psychology, s, sacks, oliver

20:54 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
For it never occurs to us at first that a vision might be 'medical'; and if an organic basis is suspected or found, this may be felt to 'devalue' the vision (though, of course, it does not-values, valuations, have nothing to do with etiology

Oliver Sacks, The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat and Other Clinical Tales, 1985

@темы: 20, english: anglo-american, psychology, s, sacks, oliver

20:54 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
How, say, is a dream intelligible in terms of function?
We have always two universes of discourse-call them 'physical' and 'phenomenal', or what you will-one dealing with questions of quantitative and formal structure, the other with those qualities that constitute a 'world'. All of us have our own, distinctive mental worlds, our own inner journeyings and landscapes, and these, for most of us, require no clear neurological 'correlate'.

Oliver Sacks, The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat and Other Clinical Tales, 1985

@темы: english: anglo-american, 20, psychology, s, sacks, oliver

20:53 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
the powers of survival, of the will to survive, and to survive as a unique inalienable individual, are, absolutely, the strongest in our being: stronger than any impulses, stronger than disease. Health, health militant, is usually the victor.

Oliver Sacks, The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat and Other Clinical Tales, 1985

@темы: 20, english: anglo-american, psychology, s, sacks, oliver

20:53 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
The presence of others, other people, excite and rattle him, force him into an endless, frenzied, social chatter, a veritable delirium of identity-making and -seeking; the presence of plants, a quiet garden, the non-human order, making no social or human demands upon him, allow this identity-delirium to relax, to subside; and by their quiet, non-human self-sufficiency and completeness allow him a rare quietness and self-sufficiency of his own, by offering (beneath, or beyond, all merely human identities and relations) a deep wordless communion with Nature itself, and with this the restored sense of being in the world, being real.

Oliver Sacks, The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat and Other Clinical Tales, 1985

@темы: 20, english: anglo-american, psychology, s, sacks, oliver

20:53 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
For it is not memory which is the final, 'existential' casualty here (although his memory is wholly devastated); it is not memory only which has been so altered in him, but some ultimate capacity for feeling which is gone; and this is the sense in which he is 'de-souled'.

Oliver Sacks, The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat and Other Clinical Tales, 1985

@темы: 20, english: anglo-american, memoria, psychology, s, sacks, oliver

20:52 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Nothing in William's tone or manner-nothing in his exuberant, but unvarying and indifferent, style of monologue-had prepared me for the possibility of. . . reality. William spoke of his brother, who was real, in precisely the same tone, or lack of tone, in which he spoke of the unreal-and now, suddenly, out of the phantoms, a real figure appeared! Further, he did not treat his younger brother as 'real'-did not display any real emotion, was not in the least oriented or delivered from his delirium- but, on the contrary, instantly treated his brother as unreal, effacing him, losing him, in a further whirl of delirium - utterly different from the rare but profoundly moving times when Jimmie G. (see Chapter Two) met his brother, and while with him was unlost

Oliver Sacks, The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat and Other Clinical Tales, 1985

@темы: 20, english: anglo-american, psychology, s, sacks, oliver

20:52 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Complementary to any purely medicinal, or medical, approach there must also be an 'existential' approach: in particular, a sensitive understanding of action, art and play as being in essence healthy and free, and thus antagonistic to crude drives and impulsions, to 'the blind force of the subcortex' from which these patients suffer.

Oliver Sacks, The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat and Other Clinical Tales, 1985

@темы: 20, english: anglo-american, psychology, s, sacks, oliver

20:52 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
The paradox of an illness which can present as wellness-as a wonderful feeling of health and well-being, and only later reveal its malignant potentials-is one of the chimaeras, tricks and ironies of nature. It is one which has fascinated a number of artists, especially those who equate art with sickness: thus it is a theme-at once Dionysiac, Venerean and Faustian - which persistently recurs in Thomas Mann - from the febrile tuberculous highs of The Magic Mountain, to the spirochetal inspirations in Dr Faustus and the aphrodisiac malignancy in his last tale, The Black Swan.

Oliver Sacks, The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat and Other Clinical Tales, 1985

@темы: s, psychology, mann, thomas, m, literature, english: anglo-american, deutsche, 20, sacks, oliver

20:52 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Sherrington once called 'our secret sense, our sixth sense'- that continuous but unconscious sensory flow from the movable parts of our body (muscles, tendons, joints), by which their position and tone and motion are continually monitored and adjusted, but in a way which is hidden from us because it is automatic and unconscious.
Our other senses-the five senses-are open and obvious; but this-our hidden sense-had to be discovered, as it was, by Sherrington, in the 1890s. He named it 'proprioception', to distinguish it from 'exteroception' and 'interoception', and, additionally, because of its indispensability for our sense of ourselves; for it is only by courtesy of proprioception, so to speak, that we feel our bodies as proper to us, as our 'property', as our own. (Sherrington 1906, 1940.)

Oliver Sacks, The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat and Other Clinical Tales, 1985

@темы: 20, english: anglo-american, psychology, s, sacks, oliver

19:07 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
If a man has lost a leg or an eye, he knows he has lost a leg or an eye; but if he has lost a self-himself-he cannot know it, because he is no longer there to know it.

Oliver Sacks, The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat and Other Clinical Tales, 1985

@темы: 20, english: anglo-american, psychology, s, sacks, oliver

19:06 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
I may venture to affirm,' Hume wrote, 'that we are nothing but a bundle or collection of different sensations, which succeed each other with an inconceivable rapidity, and are in a perpetual flux and movement.'

Oliver Sacks, The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat and Other Clinical Tales, 1985

@темы: sacks, oliver, s, psychology, philosophy, h, english: anglo-american, english-british, 20

19:03 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
You have to begin to lose your memory, if only in bits and pieces, to realise that memory is what makes our lives. Life without memory is no life at all . . . Our memory is our coherence, our reason, our feeling, even our action. Without it, we are nothing … (I can only wait for the final amnesia, the one that can erase an entire life, as it did my mother's . . .)
–Luis Bunuel
This moving and frightening segment in Bunuel's recently translated memoirs raises fundamental questions-clinical, practical, existential, philosophical: what sort of a life (if any), what sort of a world, what sort of a self, can be preserved in a man who has lost the greater part of his memory and, with this, his past, and his moorings in time?

Oliver Sacks, The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat and Other Clinical Tales, 1985

@темы: s, psychology, non-fiction, memoria, memoirs, english: anglo-american, 20, sacks, oliver

19:54 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
And yet, whether in a philosophic sense (Kant's sense), or an empirical and evolutionary sense, judgment is the most important faculty we have. An animal, or a man, may get on very well without 'abstract attitude' but will speedily perish if deprived of judgment. Judgment must be the first faculty of higher life or mind-yet it is ignored, or misinterpreted, by classical (computational) neurology. And if we wonder how such an absurdity can arise, we find it in the assumptions, or the evolution, of neurology itself. For classical neurology (like classical physics) has always been mechanical-from Hughlings Jackson's mechanical analogies to the computer analogies of today.

Of course, the brain is a machine and a computer-everything in classical neurology is correct. But our mental processes, which constitute our being and life, are not just abstract and mechanical, but personal, as well-and, as such, involve not just classifying and categorising, but continual judging and feeling also. If this is missing, we become computer-like, as Dr P. was. And, by the same token, if we delete feeling and judging, the personal, from the cognitive sciences, we reduce them to something as defective as Dr P.-and we reduce our apprehension of the concrete and real.

Oliver Sacks, The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat and Other Clinical Tales, 1985

@темы: 20, english: anglo-american, non-fiction, psychology, s, sacks, oliver

19:03 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
In The World as Representation and Will, Schopenhauer speaks of music as 'pure will'. How fascinated he would have been by Dr P., a man who had wholly lost the world as representation, but wholly preserved it as music or will.
And this, mercifully, held to the end-for despite the gradual advance of his disease (a massive tumour or degenerative process in the visual parts of his brain) Dr P. lived and taught music to the last days of his life.

Oliver Sacks, The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat and Other Clinical Tales, 1985

@темы: sacks, oliver, s, psychology, non-fiction, music, english: anglo-american, 20

18:23 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
“Ты считаешь, она умеет рисовать? — хмуро спросила София.
— Нет, — ответила бабушка, — может быть, и нет. Но она, несомненно, принадлежит к той породе людей, которые хоть раз в жизни достигают совершенства.”

Туве Янссон, Летняя книга, 1972

@темы: 20, jansson, tove, suomalainen, я

18:16 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Таны, собравшиеся в чертоге и огромной немой толпой покрывшие весь холм, благодушно улыбались, внимая арфисту так, будто никто из них ни разу в жизни не убивал соседа.
«Что ж, значит, он изменил их, — сказал я и упал, споткнувшись о корень. — Разве нет?»
«Разве нет?» — шепотом отозвался лес —или все-таки не лес, а что-то более далекое, какой-то отголосок иного разума, древней и ужасной формы жизни.
Напрягшись, я прислушался.
Ни звука.
«Он пересказывает мир и изменяет его, -
— шептал я, все больше распаляясь. — Само его имя свидетельствует об этом. Нездешним зрением он видит неразумный мир и превращает дрова и мусор в золото».

Немного поэтично, готов признать. Его манера выражаться заразила меня, сделала напыщенным. «И тем не менее», — сердито прошептал я, но не закончил фразу, отчетливо осознав вдруг и свой шепот, и свою всегдашнюю позу, и свое вечное стремление преображать мир словами — ничего не изменяя. Я все еще сжимал в кулаке змею. Я выпустил ее. Она уползла.

«Он берет то, что есть под рукой, — упрямо сказал я, пытаясь начать сначала, — и применяет это наилучшим образом, чтобы изменить людские умы. Разве нет?» Но в словах моих звучало раздражение, ибо я понимал, что это неправда. Он пел за плату, ради похвалы женщин — в особенности одной из них — и ради чести, которую ему оказывал король своим рукопожатием. Если идеи искусства прекрасны, то это заслуга самого искусства, а не Сказителя. Слепой искатель благозвучий, почти бездумный, как птица. Разве люди убивают друг друга изящнее оттого, что в лесу сладко поют птицы?

И все же я никак не мог успокоиться. Его пальцы, будто движимые некой потусторонней силой, безошибочно перебирали струны, и сплетались слова стародавних песен, сцены из унылых сказаний переплетались, соединялись в единое целое, создавая вымысел без изъяна — образ его самого и в то же время не-ero, вне грубой лести золота, — провидение возможного.

«Разве нет?» — прошептал я, подаваясь вперед и изо всех сил пытаясь разглядеть хоть что-нибудь за темными стволами и ветвями.

Повсюду я ощущал чье-то незримое присутствие, леденящее душу, как первое знакомство со смертью, как мутные немигающие глаза тысячи змей. Все тихо. Я коснулся толстой скользкой ветки и был уже готов в ужасе отпрянуть, но это действительно была всего лишь ветка. По-прежнему ни звука, ни шевеления. Я поднялся на ноги и, пригнувшись, озираясь по сторонам, медленно побрел обратно к холму. Оно — что бы это ни было — следовало за мной. В этом не было никакого сомнения, я был уверен в этом, как ни в чем другом. Затем оно вдруг исчезло, словно было всего-навсего порождением моего мозга. Во дворце смеялись.

Джон Гарднер, Грендель, 1971

@темы: poetry, mythology, gardner, john, g, english-american, 20

11:51 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Только умный человек мог так просто сказать о вкусовых различиях: "Не обозначают ли слова "это мне не нравится" не что иное как "я не понимаю этого".

Петр Вайль, Гений места, 1999

@темы: вайль, петр, travelogue, russian, mahler, gustav, letters, 20

11:48 

Lika_k
Искусствоед
Тонко и точно выразился об "Исповеди" Толстого: "Страшно грустное варварское самоистязание постановкой фальшивых вопросов".

Петр Вайль, Гений места, 1999

@темы: вайль, петр, travelogue, russian, 20

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