February 2012
44 posts
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Le clair que tu hais vient de la noir qui te manque
Jean Pierre Velly, Bestiaire perdu
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acissej:
A wound gives off its own light surgeons say. If all the lamps in the house were turned out you could dress this wound by what shines from it.
Anne Carson
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“Mais tandis que le sang, la flegme et la bile jaune s’épanchent visiblement et...”
– Jean Starobinski, L’encre de la mélancolie
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The Brain — is wider than the sky
speakmnemosyne:
The Brain — is wider than the Sky — For — put them side by side — The one the other will contain With ease — and You — beside — The Brain is deeper than the sea — For — hold them — Blue to Blue — The one the other will absorb — As Sponges — Buckets — do — The Brain is just the weight of God — For — Heft them — Pound for Pound — And they will differ — if they do — As Syllable from...
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Recordings by NASA, they are the sounds made by...
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notesfromaboveground:
Now let us have this quite clear. What is more important to solve: the ‘outer’ problem (space, time, matter, the unknown without) or the ‘inner’ one (life, thought, love, the unknown within) or again their point of contact (death)? For we agree, do we not, that problems as problems do exist even if the world be something made of nothing within nothing made of something. Or...
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astroisgoodforyou:
Soleil, soleil!… Faute éclatante! Toi qui masques la mort, Soleil, Sous l’azur et l’or d’une tente Où les fleurs tiennent leur conseil; Par d’impénétrables délices, Toi, le plus fier de mes complices, Et de mes pièges le plus haut, Tu gardes le cœur de connaître Que l’univers n’est qu’un défaut Dans la pureté du Non-être!
— P. Valéry, Ébauche d’un serpent
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astroisgoodforyou:
“Le réel, il faut concevoir que c’est l’expulsé du sens. C’est l’impossible comme tel, c’est l’aversion du sens. C’est aussi la version du sens dans l’anti-sens et l’anté-sens, le choc en retour du verbe, en tant que le verbe n’est là que pour ça – ça qui de l’immondice dont le monde s’émonde en principe – si tant est qu’il y ait un monde. Ça ne veut pas dire qu’il y arrive....
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“Know thou that the darkness of the earth is ruddy, and the darkness of the air...”
– Aleister Crowley, The Vision and the Voice (The Cry of the 14th AEthyr)
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timeimmemorial:
больше ничего
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December 4, 1978
I write my suffering less and less yet it grows all the stronger, shifting to the realm of the eternal, since I no longer write it.
Roland Barthes, Mourning Diary
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fellinidreams:
“It is, to describe it figuratively, as if a writer were to make a slip of the pen, and the error became conscious of itself as such — perhaps it wasn’t a mistake but from a much high point of view an essential ingredient in the whole presentation — and as if this error wanted now to rebel against the author, out of hatred for him forbid him to correct it, and in manic defiance say...
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“J’écris pour me parcourir. Peindre, composer, écrire : me parcourir....”
– Henri Michaux (Face aux verrous, 1954)
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speakmnemosyne:
“Toward dawn, he dreamt he had hidden himself in one of the naves of the Clementine Library. A librarian wearing dark glasses asked him: What are you looking for? Hladik answered: God. The Librarian told him: God is in one of the letters on one of the pages of one of the 400,000 volumes of the Clementine. My fathers and the fathers of my fathers have sought after that letter. I...
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“We don’t want Other Worlds. We want mirrors.”
– Солярис. Андрей Тарковский
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Not Waving but Drowning
apoemaday:
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 Playing tricks, kidding, fooling around. 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...
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timeimmemorial:
Consciousness of life, of its existence and action, is merely pain and sorrow over this existence and activity; for therein consciousness finds only consciousness of its opposite as its essence- and of its own nothingness.
- Hegel, The Phenomenology of Mind
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“There is poetry as soon as we realize that we possess nothing.”
– John Cage (via mythologyofblue)
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speakmnemosyne:
Ya no seré feliz. Tal vez no importa. Hay tantas otras cosas en el mundo; un instante cualquiera es más profundo y diverso que el mar. La vida es corta y aunque las horas son tan largas, una oscura maravilla nos acecha, la muerte, ese otro mar, esa otra flecha que nos libra del sol y de la luna y del amor. La dicha que me diste y me quitaste debe ser borrada; lo que era todo...
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“There are eyes everywhere. No blind spot left. What shall we dream of when...”
– Paul Virilio
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A Few Words on the Soul
We have a soul at times. No one’s got it non-stop, for keeps.
Day after day, year after year may pass without it.
Sometimes it will settle for awhile only in childhood’s fears and raptures. Sometimes only in astonishment that we are old.
It rarely lends a hand in uphill tasks, like moving furniture, or lifting luggage, or going miles in shoes that pinch.
It usually steps out ...
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Matins 1
apoemaday:
The sun shines; by the mailbox, leaves of the divided birch tree folded, pleated like fins. Underneath, hollow stems of the white daffodils, Ice Wings, Cantatrice; dark leaves of the wild violet. Noah says depressives hate the spring, imbalance between the inner and the outer world. I make another case—being depressed, yes, but in a sense passionately attached to the living tree, my...
January 2012
75 posts
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“We construct a narrative for ourselves, and that’s the thread that we follow...”
– Paul Auster (via human-voices)
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slaapliedje:
“While melancholy is a state of vague dreaminess, never deep or intense, sadness is closed, serious, and painfully interiorized. One can be sad anywhere, but sadness grows in intensity in a closed space while melancholy flourishes in open spaces. Sadness almost always stems from a precise motive and is therefore concentrated, whereas there are no exterior causes for melancholy. I...
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No vive ya nadie...
-No vive ya nadie en la casa –me dices-; todos se han ido. La sala, el dormitorio, el patio, yacen despoblados. Nadie ya queda, pues que todos han partido.
Y yo te digo: Cuando alguien se va, alguien queda. El punto por donde pasó un hombre, ya no está solo. Únicamente está solo, de soledad humana, el lugar por donde ningún hombre ha pasado. Las casas nuevas están más...
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“Only in the books written in earlier times did she sometimes think she found...”
– W. G. Sebald, Austerlitz (via slaapliedje)