Mostrando postagens com marcador Simone Weil. Mostrar todas as postagens
Mostrando postagens com marcador Simone Weil. Mostrar todas as postagens

segunda-feira, 1 de julho de 2013

Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity


1. 

The love of our neighbour in all its fulness simply means being able to say to the other: 'What are you going through? ' It is indispensable to know how to look at that person in a certain way. This way of looking is first of all attentive. The soul empties itself of all its own contents in order to receive into itself the person it is looking at, just as he or she is, in all his or her truth. Only whoever is capable of attention can do this.

Simone Weil, Waiting for God

terça-feira, 25 de junho de 2013

poema-prece

In 1938 I spent ten days at Solesmes, from Palm Sunday to Easter Tuesday, following all the liturgical services. I was suffering from splitting headaches; each sound hurt me like a blow; by an extreme effort of concentration I was able to rise above this wretched flesh, to leave it to suffer by itself, heaped up in a corner, and to find a pure and perfect joy in the unimaginable beauty of the chanting and the words.
(...)
 There was a young English Catholic there from whom I gained my first idea of the supernatural power of the sacraments because of the truly angelic radiance with which he seemed to be clothed after going to communion. Chance -- for I always prefer saying chance rather than Providence -- made of him a messenger to me. For he told me of the existence of those English poets of the seventeenth century who are named metaphysical. In reading them later on, I discovered the poem of which I read you what is unfortunately a very inadequate translation. It is called "Love". I learned it by heart. Often, at the culminating point of a violent headache, I make myself say it over, concentrating all my attention upon it and clinging with all my soul to the tenderness it enshrines.
I used to think I was merely reciting it as a beautiful poem, but without my knowing it the recitation had the virtue of a prayer.


LOVE bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
If I lack'd anything.

'A guest,' I answer'd, 'worthy to be here:'
Love said, 'You shall be he.'
'I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,
I cannot look on Thee.'
Love took my hand and smiling did reply,
'Who made the eyes but I?'

'Truth, Lord; but I have marr'd them: let my shame
Go where it doth deserve.'
'And know you not,' says Love, 'Who bore the blame?'
'My dear, then I will serve.'
'You must sit down,' says Love, 'and taste my meat.'
So I did sit and eat.
(George Herbert)

Waiting for God, Simone Weil