For here the day unravels what the night has woven. When we awake each morning, we hold in our hands, usually weakly and loosely, but a few fringes of the tapestry of a lived life, as loomed for us by forgetting. However, with our purposeful activity and, even more, our purposive remembering each day unravels… Continue reading Walter Benjamin
I would like to write you so simply, so simply, so simply. Without having anything ever catch the eye, excepting yours alone, … so that above all the language remains self-evidently secret, as if it were being invented at every step, and as if it were burning immediately. — Jacques Derrida, The Post Card: From… Continue reading Jacques Derrida
Poetry is an art of beginnings and ends. You want middles, read novels. — Dean Young, The Art of Recklessness: Poetry as Assertive Force and Contradiction (Graywolf Press, 2010)
To become imperceptible oneself, to have dismantled love in order to become capable of loving. To have dismantled one’s self in order finally to be alone and meet the true double at the other end of the line. A clandestine passenger on a motionless voyage. To become like everybody else; but this, precisely, is a… Continue reading Gilles Deleuze
How can another see into me, into my most secret self, without my being able to see in there myself? And without my being able to see him in me. And if my secret self, that which can be revealed only to the other, to the wholly other, to God if you wish, is a… Continue reading Jacques Derrida
…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.
Actuality is when the lighthouse is dark between flashes: it is the instant between the ticks of the watch…the pause when nothing is happening. It is the void between events. Yet the instant of actuality is all we ever can know directly. — George Kubler, The Shape of Time. (Yale University Press; Seventh Printing edition,… Continue reading George Kubler