Leading Lives That Matter: What We Should Do and Who We Should Be
Leading Lives That Matter draws together a wide range of texts -- including fiction, autobiography, and philosophy -- offering challenge and insight to those who are thinking about what to do with their lives. Instead of giving prescriptive advice, Mark Schwehn and Dorothy Bass approach the subject of vocation as an ongoing conversation. They include in this conversation some of the Western tradition's best writings on human life -- its meaning, purpose, and significance -- ranging from ancient Greek poetry to contemporary fiction. Including Leo Tolstoy's novella The Death of Ivan Ilych as an extended epilogue, this volume will help readers clarify and deepen how they think about their own lives.
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Leading Lives that Matter: What We Should Do and who We Should be
Mark R. Schwehn,Dorothy C. Bass
Vista previa limitada - 2006
action American answer asked become began begin believe better brother called character choice choose Christian comes consider continued course death doctor door eyes face fact father feel felt friends gifts give given hand happened hard head hear heart hope human idea ideal important Ivan Ilych kind knew labor lead less lives looked matter mean mind mother moved nature never once ourselves pain parents perhaps person play poem possible present question reason remember seemed sense serve significance social society sometimes Sonny speak stand story suffering suggest talents talk tell things thought tion told took turn understand virtue vocation voice whole women writing young
Página 223 - In darkness, and amid the many shapes Of joyless day-light; when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, Have hung upon the beatings of my heart, How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee O sylvan Wye!
Página 226 - Unwearied in that service : rather say With warmer love — oh ! with far deeper zeal Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, That after many wanderings, many years Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, And this green pastoral landscape, were to me More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake ! LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.
Página 175 - And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds : Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Página 223 - Is lightened ; that serene and blessed mood In which the affections gently lead us on, Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul, While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.
Página 104 - If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it.
Página 317 - WHEN I consider how my light is spent, Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest he, returning, chide, "Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?
Página 175 - Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys and destiny obscure ; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike the' inevitable hour : The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Página 222 - That on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect The landscape with the quiet of the sky. The day is come when I again repose Here, under this dark sycamore, and view...
Página 224 - The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colours and their forms, were then to me An appetite; a feeling and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.