The world that our senses and our consciousness habitually acquaint us with is now nothing more than the shadow of itself; and it is cold like death. - Henri Bergson

Social thought is unable not to keep its original structure.

De um mal entendido sobre isso é que nasceu a celeuma entre o realismo e o idealismo na arte. Sem dúvida, a arte nada mais é que uma visão mais direta da realidade. Mas essa pureza de percepção implica uma ruptura com a convenção utilitária, um desprendimento inato e especificamente localizado do sentido ou da consciência, enfim, certa imaterialidade de vida, que vem a ser o que sempre se chamou de idealismo. Por conseguinte, pode-se afirmar, sem jogar de modo algum com o sentido das palavras, que o realismo está na obra quando o idealismo está na alma, e que só à força de idealidade se toma contato com a realidade.

Duration is the continuous progress of the past which gnaws into the future and which swells as it advances. And as the past grows without ceasing, so also there is no limit to its preservation. Memory, as we have tried to prove, is not a faculty of putting away recollections in a drawer, or of inscribing them in a register. There is no register, no drawer; there is not even, properly speaking, a faculty, for a faculty works intermittently, when it will or when it can, whilst the piling up of the past upon the past goes on without relaxation. In reality, the past is preserved by itself, automatically. In its entirety, probably, it follows us at every instant; all that we have felt, thought and willed from our earliest infancy is there, leaning over the present which is about to join it, pressing against the portals of consciousness that would fain leave it outside. The cerebral mechanism is arranged just so as to drive back into the unconscious almost the whole of this past, and to admit beyond the threshold only that which can cast light on the present situation or further the action now being prepared — in short, only that which can give useful work. At the most, a few superfluous recollections may succeed in smuggling themselves through the half-open door. These memories, messengers from the unconscious, remind us of what we are dragging behind us unawares. But, even though we may have no distinct idea of it, we feel vaguely that our past remains present to us. What are we, in fact, what is ourcharacter, if not the condensation of the history that we have lived from our birth — nay, even before our birth, since we bring with us prenatal dispositions? Doubtless we think with only a small part of our past, but it is with our entire past, including the original bent of our soul, that we desire, will and act. Our past, then, as a whole, is made manifest to us in its impulse; it is felt in the form of tendency, although a small part of it only is known in the form of