I summon everything unforeseen and the indistinguishable tumult of life, I summon the laughter that the brusque arrival of intruders stops, but never profoundly stops . . . I was going to talk about my powerlessness__about this desire that fills me with anguish__now . . . I no longer feel this powerlessness . . . Now I am calm, indifferent, the childish simplicity of anguish no longer at play, I am no longer in distress, in the distress that the thought of all this time had thrown me, the thought that still separates me from the instant wherein my desire will be satisfied. I have trouble overcoming the inertia that invades me, this gloomy, static happiness . . . Trouble? Perhaps a little trouble? But the instant? How will I slip from profound indifference into a moment of happiness that is sung, that will go beyond me, that will suffocate me? From my soft dignity, eyes empty of intention, how will I pass into the feeling of this night filled with riches and with the nudity that summons the desire to die? How will I welcome once again the joyous nightmare of ardent intoxication to the point of looking beaten to death? Although I know it, the pathetic movements of the arts remind me, ceaselessly, the object of my wait is not peace, but the immense delirium of the universe, in which the beating of my heart is mingled__demanding that I be a part of it. If it wasnt the threshold of death and this tidal surf that a horror of the unlimited apparently dresses in the agonies of refusal, if it werent for my terror at the idea of taking this step, I would resemble the swell, playing, falling to ruin in the liquid depth. But death frightens me and I remain seated when thinking about it, seated as are those who oppose the drab precision of words to the blinding beauty of this world. The table, the paper, the sinister dam of death align the syllables of my name. This table and this paper__which promise me disappearance__make me sick (specifically, I am nauseous), and yet the words I am able to write here summon that which, making me sicker, would bring me the subtle violence of the wind, forever taking away this paper and the words that I write on it. Georges Bataille, Aphorisms (from The Unfinished System of Nonknowledge)
Posted on: Thu, 10 Jul 2014 13:23:17 +0000
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