I heard the greatest quote over Thanksgiving when discussing people's dysfunction: "Un-f#@%ing your sh!$." Not to be taken in a dismissive manner, but a goal to wake up and take a cold, hard, reality testing look in the mirror of self-reflection.
In the mirror of honest collective self-reflection we recognize at last a self-destructive gunman who believes he is an island.
The portrait, a perfect work of art, would be the mirror of Dorian, but also a reflection of the soul of the artist, Basil Hallward.
But then you notice the shadowy purple figure seated in the background: a reflection, in the mirror, of Bonnard himself, a sort of omniscient voyeur, watching you watch his wife, whose sewing now looks more like a compulsion than a pastime.
"Man the fuck up!" I told myself, staring at my reflection in the mirror of a men's bathroom at the Kings County Supreme Criminal Court in Brooklyn.
Looking into the mirror of our time, I see a reflection of 1914, when sleepwalking Europeans, awake but not seeing, moved the world toward WWI, then WWII, and the rest of 20th century history as we know it.
By the time I got to Peter Esterhazy's "Celestial Harmonies," I, too, was dreaming of "palaces with swirling towers and flapping banners gazing at their reflections in the mirror of the lake".
But, he added, "I refuse to become the mirror reflection of my own party".
Since the mirror reflection of a left-handed particle is right-handed, this explains the maximal violation of parity.
He can see in the mirror a reflection of three toilet cubicles behind him.
