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The man in ecstasy and the man drowning - both throw up their arms. the first to signify harmony, the second to signify strife with the elements.
-Franz Kafka
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The Man In Ecstasy And The Man

Franz Kafka
The man in ecstasy and the man drowning - both throw up their arms. the first to signify harmony, the second to signify strife with the elements.
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Men Arms Firsts

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There is such a thing as everyday, ordinary, vulgar ecstasy; the ecstasy of anger, the ecstasy of speed at the wheel, the ecstasy of ear-splitting noise, ecstasy in the soccer stadium.
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From harmony, from heavenly harmony, this universal frame began: when nature underneath a heap of jarring atoms lay, and could not heave her head, the tuneful voice was heard from high, 'arise, ye more than dead!' then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry, in order to their stations leap, and music's power obey. from harmony, from heavenly harmony, this universal frame began: from harmony to harmony through all the compass of the notes it ran, the diapason closing full in man.
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There are two aspects of individual harmony: the harmony between body and soul, and the harmony between individuals. all the tragedy in the world, in the individual and in the multitude, comes from lack of harmony. and harmony is the best given by producing harmony in one's own life.
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Not waving but drowning nobody heard him, the dead man, but still he lay moaning: i was much further out than you thought and not waving but drowning. poor chap, he always loved larking and now he's dead it must have been too cold for him his heart gave way, they said. oh, no no no, it was too cold always (still the dead one lay moaning) i was much too far out all my life and not waving but drowning.
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The man in ecstasy and the man drowning: both raise their arms.
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There is an ecstasy that marks the summit of life, and beyond which life cannot rise. and such is the paradox of living, this ecstasy comes when one is most alive, and it comes as a complete forgetfulness that one is alive. this ecstasy, this forgetfulness of living, comes to the artist, caught up and out of himself in a sheet of flame; it comes to the soldier, war-mad in a stricken field and refusing quarter; and it came to buck, leading the pack, sounding the old wolf-cry, straining after the food that was alive and that fled swiftly before him through the moonlight.
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