Thursday, December 24, 2009

literacki

What could be more pitiful than the romantics with their sobs of aspiration? The toxic fruitage of eroticism is crisper, more silent, than the emptiest night. Inside the perimeter of Hell no walls remain against the unfathomable. Everything is calm, luxuriant, incomprehensibly desolate. The ghost of self drifts in the shallows; the fading echo from a clamour of frantic dreams. One swims effortlessly into not-one. Down beyond the mouth of the estuary the ocean awaits…
-The Thirst for Annihilation: Georges Bataille and Virulent Nihilism