When an artist explains what he is doing, he usually has to do one of two things: either scrap what he has explained, or make his work fit in with the explanation.by Alexander Calder
What, if some day or
night a demon were to steal after you into your loneliest
loneliness and say to you: "This life as you now live it and have
lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times
more; and there will be nothing new in it, but every pain and every
joy and every thought and sigh and everything unutterably small or
great in your life will have to return to you, all in the same
succession and sequence - even this spider and this moonlight
between the trees, and even this moment and I myself. The eternal
hourglass of existence is turned upside down again and again, and
you with it, speck of dust!"
Would you not throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse the demon who spoke thus?... Or how well disposed would you have to become to yourself and to life to crave nothing more fervently than this ultimate eternal confirmation and seal?
from The Gay Science by Friedrich Nietzsche
Would you not throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse the demon who spoke thus?... Or how well disposed would you have to become to yourself and to life to crave nothing more fervently than this ultimate eternal confirmation and seal?
from The Gay Science by Friedrich Nietzsche
ao Kubrick e aos supercuts do Kogonada
y todo parece que se va a desintegrar ahí
mientras atraviesa la ciudad hasta la casa
no puede olvidar los edificios y la calma, cayendo
y sentía que su corazon iba subiendo (a explotar)
sólo espero que esté bien en medio del desastre
y que no se descontrole mas
sólo quiere llegar pronto y que todos estén…. todos bien
Where can so much void and inexplicability lead? We cling to our living days because the desire to die is too logical, therefore inefficient. If life had at least one argument for itself – one tenable, indestructible argument – it would be torn apart; instincts and prejudices fade when in contact with Rigor. Every living creature feeds on the unexplainable; a surplus of reason would be lethal for the existence – an endeavor to reach the Absurd … Give a precise meaning to life and it will instantaneously lose its savor. The lack of clarity of its goals makes it superior to death; a grain of precision would lower it to the triviality of a tomb. For a positive science dealing with the meaning of life would depopulate the Earth in one single day and no fool would ever succeed in resurrecting the fertile improbability on its surface.from A Short History of Decay by E. M. Cioran
There are experiences and obsessions one cannot live with. Salvation lies in confessing them. The terrifying experience of death, when preserved in consciousness, becomes ruinous. If you talk about death, you save part of your self. But at the same time, something of your real self dies, because objectified meanings lose the actuality they have in consciousness. This is why lyricism represents a dispersion of subjectivity; it is a certain quantity of an individual's spiritual effervescence which cannot be contained and needs constant expression. To be lyrical means you cannot stay closed up inside yourself. The need to externalize is the more intense, the more the lyricism is interiorized, profound, and concentrated.
(...)
To be lyrical from suffering means to achieve that inner purification in which wounds cease to be mere outer manifestations without deep complications and begin to participate in the essence of your being. The lyricism of suffering is a song of the blood, the flesh, and the nerves. True suffering begins in illness. Almost all illnesses have lyrical virtues. Only those who vegetate in a scandalous insensitivity remain impersonal when ill, and thus miss that deepening of the personality brought about by illness. One does not become lyrical except after a total organic affliction.
from On the Heights of Despair by E. M Cioran
(...)
To be lyrical from suffering means to achieve that inner purification in which wounds cease to be mere outer manifestations without deep complications and begin to participate in the essence of your being. The lyricism of suffering is a song of the blood, the flesh, and the nerves. True suffering begins in illness. Almost all illnesses have lyrical virtues. Only those who vegetate in a scandalous insensitivity remain impersonal when ill, and thus miss that deepening of the personality brought about by illness. One does not become lyrical except after a total organic affliction.
from On the Heights of Despair by E. M Cioran
The logic of pessimism moves through three refusals: a no-saying to the worst (refusal of the world-for-us, or Schopenhauer’s tears); a yes-saying to the worst (refusal of the world-in-itself, or Nietzsche’s laughter); and a no-saying to the for-us and the in-itself (a double refusal, or Cioran’s sleep).
Crying, laughing, sleeping — what other responses are adequate to a life that is so indifferent?
from Cosmic Pessimism by Eugene Thacker
A day comes when, thanks to rigidity, nothing causes wonder any more, everything is known, and life is spent in beginning over again. These are the days of exile, of desiccated life, of dead souls. To come alive again, one needs a special grace, self-forgetfulness, or a homeland. Certain mornings, on turning a corner, a delightful dew falls on the heart and then evaporates. But its coolness remains, and this is what the heart requires always. I had to set out again.from Return to Tipasa by Albert Camus
- I doubt any of us is a stranger to grief.
- No, more than grief. Its deep down… inside… every cell screams… you can hear… nothing else.
in Twin Peaks
I was young. And I felt that everybody had talent. And that for some reason they were being arbitrary and not employing that talent. I thought, 'Well, these people are the giants of an industry, they must have a good brain and a good heart and ability, how come they don't use it?' And Gena said, 'Look, a lot of people just don't have the same drives, the same desires, the same gun that sparks them. You're acting like these people all understand you; nobody understands you, I don't understand you. How the hell can anybody understand you? You're nuts!'from Cassavetes on Cassavetes
There, I was alone with myself. And disgusting as I was it was better than being with somebody else, anybody else, all of them out there doing their pitiful little tricks and handsprings. I pulled the covers up to my neck and waited.by Charles Bukowski
se a minha misantropia voltar ao de cima nos posts seguintes, blame it on PMS.
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