Thursday, August 29, 2013

literacki

We are, largely, who we remember ourselves to be. That’s why habits are so hard to break. If we know ourselves to be liars, we expect not to tell the truth. If we think of ourselves as honest, we try harder. 
~White Cat by Holly Black

literacki

Those words whispered in the dark are parlous feral things... 

Wednesday, August 28, 2013

quoth the madman


"Mystery has its own mysteries, and there are gods above gods. We have ours, they have theirs. That is what’s known as infinity."
Jean Cocteau

literacki

That sand into which we bury ourselves in order not to see, is formed of words…and it is true that words, their labyrinths, the exhausting immensity of their “possibles”, in short their treachery, have something of quicksand about them.
Georges Bataille, L’expérience intérieure

quoth the madman

"All this, in their ignorance, they called civilization, when it was but a part of their slavery."
Tacitus (Roman senator and historian)

Tuesday, August 27, 2013

literacki

"I loved you at your darkest."
Romans 5:8

literacki

"jouissance is maintained in the shock of recognition of one’s pain which one loves even more than one’s freedom, for suffering defines each one with a consistency that prevents
change."
Essays-on-the-Pleasures-of-Death

quoth the madman

Redemption is not an event in which what was profane becomes sacred and what was lost is found again. Redemption is, on the contrary, the irreparable loss of the lost, the definitive profanity of the profane."
Giorgio Agamben
 

Sunday, August 11, 2013

talking pictures

Call it what you will. Is it so hard to conceive of God with one’s senses? Why must he hide in a mist of vague promises and invisible miracles? How are we to believe the believers when we don’t believe ourselves? What will become of us who want to believe, but cannot? And what of those who neither will nor can believe? Why can I not kill God within me? Why does he go on living in a painful, humiliating way? I want to tear him out of my heart. But He remains a mocking reality which I cannot get rid of. I want knowledge. Not belief. Not surmise. But knowledge. I want God to put out his hand, show his face, speak to me. But he is silent. I cry to him in the dark, but there seems to be no one there.
The Seventh Seal (Ingmar Bergman, 1957)

belles lettres

I lie here alone and in silence, enveloped in the manifold black wrappings of darkness, tedium, unfreedom, and winter - and yet my heart beats with an immeasurable and incomprehensible inner joy, just as if I were moving in the brilliant sunshine across a flowery mead. And in the darkness I smile at life, as if I were the possessor of charm which would enable me to transform all that is evil and tragical into serenity and happiness. But when I search my mind for the cause of this joy, I find there is no cause, and can only laugh at myself. I believe that the key to the riddle is simply life itself; this deep darkness of night is soft and beautiful as velvet, if only one looks at it in the right way.
— Rosa Luxemburg, letter from prison, Mid-December, 1917

literacki

So many stars
and still we starve.
— Tasos Leivaditis, from A Manual For Euthanasia (1970)

quoth the madman

I find myself regarding existence as though from beyond the tomb, from another world; all is strange to me; I am, as it were, outside my own body and individuality; I am depersonalized, detached, cut adrift. Is this madness?
—  Henri-Frédéric Amiel

Sunday, August 4, 2013

quoth the madman

My solitude doesn’t depend on the presence or absence of people; on the contrary, I hate who steals my solitude without, in exchange, offering me true company.

~Friedrich Nietzsche

ars poetica

Once it smiled a silent dell
Where the people did not dwell;
They had gone unto the wars,
Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
Nightly, from their azure towers,
To keep watch above the flowers,
In the midst of which all day
The red sun-light lazily lay.
Now each visitor shall confess
The sad valley’s restlessness.
Nothing there is motionless—
Nothing save the airs that brood
Over the magic solitude.
Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees
That palpitate like the chill seas
Around the misty Hebrides!
Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven
That rustle through the unquiet Heaven
Uneasily, from morn till even,
Over the violets there that lie
In myriad types of the human eye—
Over the lilies there that wave
And weep above a nameless grave!
They wave:—from out their fragrant tops
External dews come down in drops.
They weep:—from off their delicate stems
Perennial tears descend in gems.

The Valley of Unrest ~ Edgar Allan Poe

Thursday, August 1, 2013

ars poetica

I dug, beneath the cypress shade,
    What well might seem an elfin's grave;
And every pledge in earth I laid,
    That erst thy false affection gave.
 
I pressed them down the sod beneath;
    I placed one mossy stone above;
And twined the rose's fading wreath
    Around the sepulchre of love.
 
Frail as thy love, the flowers were dead,
    Ere yet the evening sun was set:
But years shall see the cypress spread,
    Immutable as my regret.
 
~Thomas Love Peacock

ars poetica


The day has pass’d in storms, though not unmix’d
With transitory calm.   The western clouds,
Dissolving slow, unveil the glorious sun,
Majestic in decline.   The wat’ry east
Glows with the many-tinted arch of Heav’n.
We hail it as a pledge that brighter skies
Shall bless the coming morn.   Thus rolls the day,
The short dark day of life;   with tempests thus,
And fleeting sun-shine chequer’d.   At its close,
When the dread hour draws near, that bursts all ties,
All commerce with the world, Religion pours
Hope’s fairy-colors on the virtuous mind,
And, like the rain-bow on the ev’ning clouds,
Gives the bright promise that a happier dawn
Shall chase the night and silence of the grave.
~The Rain-bow ~ Thomas Love Peacock 1785–1866