The DreamLord ByronOur life is twofold; Sleep hath its own world,A boundary between the things misnamedDeath and existence: Sleep hath its own world,And a wide realm of wild reality,And dreams in their development have breath,And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy;They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,They take a weight from off waking toils,They do divide our being; they becomeA portion of ourselves as of our time,And look like heralds of eternity;They pass like spirits of the past -they speakLike sibyls of the future; they have power -The tyranny of pleasure and of pain;They make us what we were not -what they will,And shake us with the vision that's gone by,The dread of vanished shadows -Are they so?Is not the past all shadow? -What are they?Creations of the mind? -The mind can makeSubstances, and people planets of its ownWith beings brighter than have been, and giveA breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.I would recall a vision which I dreamedPerchance in sleep -for in itself a thought,A slumbering thought, is capable of years,And curdles a long life into one hour.----------Il sognoLord ByronDuplice è la nostra vita: il Sonno ha il suo proprio mondo,un confine tra le cose chiamate impropriamentemorte e esistenza: il Sonno ha il proprio mondo,e un vasto reame di sfrenata realtà;e nel loro svolgersi i sogni hanno respiro,e lacrime e tormenti e sfiorano la gioia;lasciano un peso sui nostri pensieri da svegli,tolgono un peso dalle nostre fatiche da svegli,dividono il nostro essere; diventanoparte di noi stessi e del nostro tempo,e sembrano gli araldi dell'eternità;passano come fantasmi del passato, parlanocome Sibille dell'avvenire; hanno potere -la tirannia del piacere e del dolore;ci rendono ciò che non fummo, secondo il loro volere,e ci scuotono con dissolte visioni,col terrore di svanite ombre. Ma sono veramente così?Non è forse tutto un'ombra il passato? Cosa sono?Creazioni della mente? La mente sa crearesostanza, e popolare pianeti, di sua fattura,di esseri più splendenti di quelli mai esistiti, e darerespiro e forma che sopravvivono alla carne.Vorrei richiamare una visione che ho sognatoforse nel sonno, poiché in sé un pensiero,un pensiero assopito, racchiude anni,e in un'ora condensa una lunga vita.
Millions of us daily take advantage of [Skype], delighted to carry the severed heads of family members under our arms as we move from the deck to the cool of inside, or steering them around our new homes, bobbing them like babies on a seasickening tour. Skype can be a wonderful consolation prize in the ongoing tournament of globalization, though typically the first place it transforms us is to ourselves. How often are the initial seconds of a video's call takeoff occupied by two wary, diagonal glances, with a quick muss or flick of the hair, or a more generous tilt of the screen in respect to the chin? Please attend to your own mask first. Yet, despite the obvious cheer of seeing a faraway face, lonesomeness surely persists in the impossibility of eye contact. You can offer up your eyes to the other person, but your own view will be of the webcam's unwarm aperture. ... The problem lies in the fact that we can't bring our silence with us through walls. In phone conversations, while silence can be both awkward and intimate, there is no doubt that each of you inhabits the same darkness, breathing the same dead air. Perversely, a phone silence is a thick rope tying two speakers together in the private void of their suspended conversation. This binding may be unpleasant and to be avoided, but it isn't as estranging as its visual counterpart. When talk runs to ground on Skype, and if the purpose of the call is to chat, I can quickly sense that my silence isn't their silence. For some reason silence can't cross the membrane of the computer screen as it can uncoil down phone lines. While we may be lulled into thinking that a Skype call, being visual, is more akin to a hang-out than a phone conversation, it is in many ways more demanding than its aural predecessor. Not until Skype has it become clear how much companionable quiet has depended on co-inhabiting an atmosphere, with a simple act of sharing the particulars of a place -- the objects in the room, the light through the window -- offering a lovely alternative to talk.