به نظر من اگر مرگ در دنیا نبود، بشر به آن محتاج بود و می بایست آن را خلق كند تا از چنگال كسالتهای زندگی رهایی یابد. در حقیقت بسیاری از ما پیش از مردن… - Maurice Maeterlinck

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به نظر من اگر مرگ در دنیا نبود، بشر به آن محتاج بود و می بایست آن را خلق كند تا از چنگال كسالتهای زندگی رهایی یابد. در حقیقت بسیاری از ما پیش از مردن، مرده هستیم؛ برای اینكه همه چیز خود را از دست داده ایم

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About Maurice Maeterlinck

Count Maurice Polydore Marie Bernard Maeterlinck (29 August 1862 – 6 May 1949) was a Belgian poet, playwright, and essayist who wrote in French, most famous for his work L'Oiseau Bleu (The Blue Bird), and for other works exploring the meaning of life and death. He was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1911.

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Also Known As

Alternative Names: Maurice Polydore Marie Bernard Maeterlinck
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Observamos aquí, una vez más, que todo el genio reside en la especie, la vida o la naturaleza; y que el individuo es más o menos estúpido. Sólo en el hombre hay emulación real entre las dos inteligencias, tendencia cada vez más precisa, cada vez más activa a una especie de equilibrio que es el gran secreto de nuestro porvenir.

Silence is the element in which great things fashion themselves together ... Speech is too often ... the act of quite stifling and suspending thought, so that there is none to conceal ... Speech is of Time, silence is of Eternity ... It is idle to think that, by means of words, any real communication can ever pass from one man to another ...

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We cannot take leave of the aquatic plants without briefly mentioning the life of the most romantic of them all: the legendary Val­lisneria, an Hydrocharad whose nuptials form the most tragic episode in the love-history of the flowers. The Vallisneria is a rather insignificant herb, possess­ing none of the strange grace of the Water-lily or of certain submersed comas. But it seems as though nature had delighted in giving it a beautiful idea. The whole existence of the little plant is spent at the bottom of the water, in a sort of half-slumber, until the moment of the wedding-hour in which it aspires to a new life. Then the female flower slowly uncoils the long spiral of its peduncle, rises, emerges and floats and blossoms on the sur­face of the pond. From a neighbouring stem, the male flowers, which see it through the sunlit water, soar in their turn, full of hope, towards the one that rocks, that awaits them, that calls them to a magic world. But, when they have come half-way, they feel themselves suddenly held back: their stalk, the very source of their life, is too short; they will never reach the abode of light, the only spot in which the union of the stamens and the pistil can be achieved! .

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