I already knew this immense tenderness, which is only the last degree of sorrow… I knew then, already, that the intimacy of things is death. — Georges Bataille, L’Impossible, translation by Robert Hurley. (Editions de Minuit, April 1, 1962) Originally published 1947. Advertisements
To think is to confine yourself to a single thought that one day stands still like a star in the world’s sky. — Martin Heidegger, “The Thinker As Poet,” Poetry, Language, Thought. (Harper Perennial Modern Classics; Later Printing Used edition, December 3, 2013)
I don’t know why we are here, but I’m pretty sure that it is not in order to enjoy ourselves. — Ludwig Wittgenstein
…what am I if not a ray from some long-dead star? […] dying in the flames of excessive potentiality? — George Bataille, Guilty. (Lapis Pr, October 1, 1988) Originally published 1944.
Alone, very alone on a line — a line of poetry. — Jacques Derrida, Schibboleth: pour Paul Cela. (Editions Galilée, 1986)
We don’t forget, but something vacant settles in us. — Roland Barthes, Mourning Diary. (Hill and Wang; First Edition edition, October 12, 2010)
The world is full of magical things patiently waiting for our wits to grow sharper. — Bertrand Russell