‘It’s now very common to hear people say, “I’m rather offended by that”, as if that gives them certain rights. It’s no more than a whine. It has no meaning, it has no purpose, it has no reason to be respected as a phrase. “I’m offended by that.” Well, so fucking what?’
Source: I saw hate in a graveyard – Stephen Fry
Everything that needs to be said has already been said. But since no one was listening, everything must be said again.
I came across the quote above in Steal Like an Artist: 10 Things Nobody Told You About Being Creative. One excuse I have used for not writing is that everything has already been said and written. Who am I to be able to add anything new? What André Gide says makes my excuse crumble, good things are worth repeating and phrase in new ways.
I came across this text in the book “Daring Greatly” by Brené Brown, a great and truly interesting book.
It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better.
The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again,
because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause;
who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.
Today the ad about my mother´s funeral service was in the local newspaper. Included in the ad was a modified text of the poem below.
Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.
(Mary Elizabeth Frye)