“What a remarkably pleasant room. I feel at peace here. Safe from all danger. But please don’t be alarmed. I shan’t stay long. I never stay long, with others. They do not wish it. And that, for me, is a happy state of affairs. My only security, you see, my true comfort and solace, rests in the confirmation that I elicit from people of all kinds a common and constant level of indifference. It assures me that I am as I think myself to be, that I am fixed, concrete. To show interest in me or, good gracious, anything tending towards a positive liking of me, would cause in me a condition of the acutest alarm. Fortunately, the danger is remote.”—Harold Pinter, No Man’s Land (via robcam-wfu)
“The egoist has always affirmed himself with crime and, with sacrilegious hand, has pulled the sacred idols down from their pedestals. It is necessary to put an end to the sacred; or better still: the need to violate the sacred must become general. It is not a new revolution that approaches; but a mighty, impetuous, superb, shameless, consciousless crime sounds in the thunder on the horizon. Don’t you see how already the foreboding sky grows dark and silent?”—Max Stirner (via desecration-master)
“What a difference between freedom and ownness! One can get rid of a great many things, one yet does not get rid of all; one becomes free from much, not from everything. Inwardly one may be free in spite of the condition of slavery, although, too, it is again only from all sorts of things, not from everything; but from the whip, the domineering temper, of the master, one does not as slave become free. “Freedom lives only in the realm of dreams!” Ownness, on the contrary, is my whole being and existence, it is I myself. I am free from what I am rid of, owner of what I have in my power or what I control. My own I am at all times and under all circumstances, if I know how to have myself and do not throw myself away on others. To be free is something that I cannot truly will, because I cannot make it, cannot create it: I can only wish it and - aspire toward it, for it remains an ideal, a spook. The fetters of reality cut the sharpest welts in my flesh every moment. But my own I remain. Given up as serf to a master, I think only of myself and my advantage; his blows strike me indeed, I am not free from them; but I endure them only for my benefit, perhaps in order to deceive him and make him secure by the semblance of patience, or, again, not to draw worse upon myself by contumacy. But, as I keep my eye on myself and my selfishness, I take by the forelock the first good opportunity to trample the slaveholder into the dust. That I then become free from him and his whip is only the consequence of my antecedent egoism. Here one perhaps says I was “free” even in the condition of slavery - namely, “intrinsically” or “inwardly.” But “intrinsically free” is not “really free,” and “inwardly” is not “outwardly.” I was own, on the other hand, my own, altogether, inwardly and outwardly. Under the dominion of a cruel master my body is not “free” from torments and lashes; but it is my bones that moan under the torture, my fibres that quiver under the blows, and I moan because my body moans. That I sigh and shiver proves that I have not yet lost myself, that I am still my own. My leg is not “free” from the master’s stick, but it is my leg and is inseparable. Let him tear it off me and look and see if he still has my leg! He retains in his hand nothing but the - corpse of my leg, which is as little my leg as a dead dog is still a dog: a dog has a pulsating heart, a so-called dead dog has none and is therefore no longer a dog.”—Max Stirner (via alammusdrenim)
“This old anguish,
Which I’ve carried around for centuries,
Overflowed from its vessel
In tears, in wild imaginings,
In nightmarish dreams without terror,
In sudden huge emotions that make no sense.”—Fernando Pessoa (via silencemadenietzschecry)
Yeah. Of course, personally, I don't usually like those quiet moments, you know. I really don't. I mean, I don't know if it's that Freudian thing or what—I mean, a fear of unconscious impulses or my own aggression or—I mean, if things get too quiet, you know, and as we were saying, I find myself just sitting there, whether I'm by myself, or I'm with somebody else, well, I just have this feeling of, My God, I'm going to be revealed. I mean, I'm adequate to do any sort of task, you know, but I'm not adequate just to be a human being. I mean, I'm not—you know, I mean, if I'm just trapped there and I'm not allowed to do things, but I just—all I can do is just be there—I—I will fail. In other words, I can pass any other test and get an "A" if I put in the required effort, but I don't have a clue how to pass this test. Of course, this isn't really a test, but I see it as a test, and I feel I'm going to fail it. I mean, it's really scary. I just feel totally at see. I mean—
I mean, I can imagine a life, Wally, in which each day would become an incredible, monumental creative task—a life in which everybody would just go with their impulses, all day long—they would just be themselves every moment, with others. And we're not necessarily up to it. I mean, if you flet like walking out on the person you live with, you'd walk out. Then if you felt like it you'd come back. But meanwhile the other person would have reacted to your walking out. It would be a life of such feeling. In a way, it would be intoxicating. And I mean, what was amazing in the workshops I led was how quickly people seemed to fall into enthusiasm, celebration, joy, wonder, abandon, wildness, tenderness. And could we stand to live like that? I mean, maybe we're just simply afraid of living. Or maybe what we're really afraid of is thinking about a kind of existance that we've lost, which if we were to remember would make us give up everything.
I think it's that moment of contact with another person. That's what scares us. That moment of being face to face with another person. I mean, you wouldn't think it would be so frightening. It's strange that we find it so frightening.
Well, it isn't that strange. After all, it isn't really that strange, Wally, I mean, after all, there are some pretty good reasons for being frightened, because first of all a human being is a dangerous and complex creature. I mean, really, if you start living each moment—Christ, that's quite a challenge. I mean, if you really reach out and you're really in touch with the other person—well, that really is something to strive for, I think—I really do.
It's just so pathetic if one doesn't do that.
Absolutely. It's just nothing. I mean, at least attempt it—even if you're going blind, do some kind of exercises for our eyes or, you know, something. But of course there's a problem, because the closer you come, I think, to another human being, the more really completely mysterious that person becomes, and the more unreachable. You know, you have to reach out to that person, you have to go back and forth with them, and you have to relate, and yet—you're relating to a ghost. Or something. I don't know. Because we're ghosts. We're phantoms. Who are we?
And that's to face, to confront the fact that you're completely alone, and to accept that you're alone is to accept death.
You mean, because somehow when you are alone you're alone with death. Nothing's obstructing your view of it, or something like that.
If I understood it correctly, I think Heidegger said that if you were to experience your own being to the full, you would be experiencing the decay of that being toward death as part of your experience.
(Pause):Yes. You know, in the sexual act there's that moment of complete forgetting which is so incredible, and in the next moment you start to think about things—work on the play, what you've got to do tomorrow. I don't know if this is true of you, but I think it must be quite common. The world comes in quite fast. Now, that may be because we don't have the courage to stay in that place of forgetting, because that is again close to death. Like people who are afraid to go to sleep. In other words, you interrelate, and you don't know what the next moment will bring. And to not know what the next moment will bring, I think, brings you closer to a perception of death. So that, paradoxically, the closer you get to living, in the sense of relating constantly, I guess the closer you get to this thing that we're most afraid of.
You see, I think that's why people have affairs. I mean, you know, in the theater, if you get good reviews you feel for a moment that you've got your hands on something. You know what I mean? It's a good feeling. But then that feeling goes very quickly. And once again you don't know quite what will happen next, what you should do. Well, have an affair and up to a certain point you can really feel you're on firm ground. There is a sexual conquest to be made. There are different questions - does she enjoy the ears being nibbled? how intensely can you talk about Schopenhauer at an elegant French restaurant, or whatever nonsense it is. It's all I think to give you the semblance that there's firm earth. But have a real relationship with a person that goes on for years—well, that's completely unpredictable. Then, you've cut off all your ties to the land, and you're sailing into the unknown, into uncharted seas. And I mean, people hang on to these images of father, mother, husband, wife, again, for the same reason, because they seem to provide some firm ground. But there's no wife there. What does that mean? A wife. A husband. A son. A baby holds your hands and then suddenly, there's this huge man lifting you off the ground, and then he's gone. Where's that son? You know?
“También descubrió que era un joven rencoroso y que estaba lleno de resentimiento, que supuraba resentimiento, y que no le hubiera costado nada matar a alguien, a quien fuera, con tal de aliviar la soledad y la lluvia y el frío de Madrid, pero este descubrimiento prefirió dejarlo en la oscuridad y centrarse en su aceptación de que jamás sería un escritor y sacarle todo el partido del mundo a su recién exhumado valor.”—”2666”, Roberto Bolaño. (via estesemicho)
If you want to kill yourself, how come you don’t want to
So, here’s your chance! As for me, who loves life and
death so much,
I’d kill myself too, if I dared…
Well, if you dare, dare it!
What good to you is this endless frame of outer images
We call the world?
This moving picture hour after hour performed
By old-hat actors going through their paces,
This many-colored circus of our unending impulses?
What good is that inner world of our yours you ignore?
Kill yourself and maybe you’ll get to know it finally…
Maybe by ending it all, you’ll make a start…
And in any case, if you’re sick of existing,
Be sick with some dignity,
And don’t sing about life, as I do, because you’re soused,
Don’t hail death as literature, the way I do!
Somebody needs you? Those empty shadows called people?
No one is needed, nobody needs you…
If you’re not around, things will go on without you.
Maybe things will get worse for others if you go on living
instead of dying…
Others grieve for you?… Are you already sorry
That they’ll weep over you?
You can bet they won’t for long…
The life force, little by little, dries the tears
When they’re not spilled on our own account,
When they’re shed over what happens to others, especially
Because that’s just the thing after which nothing happens
First comes the heartache, the mystery arriving
Unannounced, and your highly touted life suddenly a
Then awe of the casket, solid and real,
And the men there in black doing their job.
Then the family at the wake, cracking jokes in their misery,
To cope with the pity of your passing,
And you there- mere cause and occasion for the wretched
You- honest-to-goodness death, much deader than you
Much deader around here than you think,
Even if maybe more alive over there…
Then comes the pathetic retreat to the grave or the vault,
And afterwards, the memory of you starting to die.
At first everyone feeling relieved
By your death, that slightly irritating tragedy,
Then the talk growing livelier day by day,
As ordinary life for everyone takes over again…
Then slowly you’re forgotten.
Only two dates are remembered each year:
The day you were born, the day you died.
Nothing, nothing more, absolutely nothing else.
Twice a year they think of you.
Twice a year they who loved you sigh over you,
And now and then sigh if someone happens to mention
Take a good look at yourself and just face what we are…
If you want to kill yourself, why not do it?
Forget the moral scruples, the mental qualms!
What scruples or qualms are there in life grinding on and
What scruples in the chemistry of impulse driving
The sap, the circulation of the blood, and love?
What memory is there of others in the happy rhythm of
Oh, the sad vanity of flesh and blood called mankind,
Can’t you see, you’re not the slightest bit important?
To yourself you matter, because you feel yourself.
To yourself you’re everything, because to yourself you’re
the whole universe,
And the real universe and the universe of others
Only satellites of your objective subjectivity.
To yourself you matter, because only you matter to
And if that’s so- you myth- won’t others be the same
Do you dread the unknown, like Hamlet?
But what’s not unknown? What is it you know
That lets you call this or that, in particular, unknown?
You love the fat of life, like Falstaff?
If you love it so fatly, love it even more!
Make yourself the fat of the earth and every thing.
Scatter your physical and chemical system
Of nocturnally conscious cells
Over the nocturnal consciousness of unconscious bodies,
Over the huge not-blanketing-anything-apparent blanket.
Over all the greenery and grass that teem with breeding
Over the atomic fog of things,
Over the turbulent walls
Of the pulsating vacuum of the world…
“There is no real me, only an entity, something illusory, and though I can hide my cold gaze and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable. I simply am not there.”—American Psycho, Bret Easton Ellis (via manko-lush)
“Más no sé de mí mismo
y para cuando sepa,
ya estaré por encima
de poder saber algo.
Aún no estoy entero,
y cuando pueda serlo,
ya estaré por encima
de poder ser yo entero.
Todavía no vivo,
y no voy a vivir:
más íntegro que en vida
seré después de muerto.-
Esto di, si te preguntan quién eres.”—Sándor Weöres / Si te preguntan quién eres, di: (fragmento)
“For I do not exist: there exist but the thousands of mirrors that reflect me. With every acquaintance I make, the population of phantoms resembling me increases. Somewhere they live, somewhere they multiply. I alone do not exist.”—Vladimir Nabokov (via deaths-and-entrances)
“… A novel needs a hero, whereas here all the traits of an anti-hero have been assembled deliberately; but the most important thing is that all this produces an extremely unpleasant impression because we’ve all become estranged from life, we’re all cripples, every one of us, more or less. We’ve become so estranged that at times we feel some kind of revulsion for genuine “real life,” and therefore we can’t bear to be reminded of it. Why, we’ve reached a point where we almost regard “real life” as hard work, as a job, and we’ve all agreed in private that it’s really better in books. And why do we sometimes fuss, indulge in whims, and make demands? We don’t know ourselves. It’d be even worse if all our whimsical desires were fulfilled. Go on, try it. Give us, for example, a little more independence; untie the hands of anyone of us, broaden our sphere of activity, relax the controls, and … I can assure you, we’ll immediately ask to have the controls reinstated. I know that you may get angry at me for saying this, you may shout and stamp your feet: “Speak for yourself,” you’ll say, “and for your own miseries in the underground, but don’t you dare say ‘all of us.’” If you’ll allow me, gentlemen; after all, I’m not trying to justify myself by saying all of us. What concerns me in particular, is that in my life I have only taken to the extreme that which you haven’t even dared to take halfway; what’s more, you’ve mistaken your cowardice for good sense; and, in deceiving yourself, you’ve consoled yourself. So, in fact, I may even be “more alive” than you are. Just take a closer look! Why, we don’t even know where this “real life” lives nowadays, what it really is, and what it’s called. Leave us alone without books and we’ll get confused and lose our way at once - we won’t know what to join, what to hold on to, what to love or what to hate, what to respect or what to despise. We’re even oppressed by being men - men with real bodies and blood of our very own. We’re ashamed of it; we consider it a disgrace and we strive to become some kind of impossible “general-human-beings.” We’re stillborn; for some time now we haven’t been conceived by living fathers; we like it more and more. We’re developing a taste for it. Soon we’ll conceive of a way to be born from ideas. But enough; I don’t want to write any more “from Underground… .”—Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes from Underground (via sunrec)
“Te sientas a desayunar con el diario delante.
Café, “con dos de sangre, por favor”. Tostadas con cadáveres.
Y al jugo de naranja ponle un poco de pólvora.
Pareces tan feliz. Ellos muriendo y tú tan lejos.
Ellos sin pan y tú con gafas.
Ellos sangrando y tú leyendo titulares.
Cruzas las piernas debajo de la mesa. Mala señal.
Cruzas las manos al hojear el periódico. Mala señal.
Cruzas la vista para ver al lector de una mesa cercana. Mala señal.
No importa que sea domingo y verano y 10 de la mañana.
Todas las señales son nefastas.
Encima, el muerto de la foto parece conocido.
Todos los muertos de todas las fotos de todos los diarios
Debe ser de otro diario, pero no te das cuenta.
De otro domingo, pero tú no lo sabes .
Del desayuno del domingo anterior, pero no lo recuerdas.
Otro café, “con menos sangre, por favor”.”—Alexis Díaz-Pimienta / El noticiómano (fragmento)
“I look at you, blind here before me,
and know you sense the tremor in my silence,
know you will not go on
past this uncertainty
without a sign, a word
that wrenches me from that dark wood,
into this, my own shadowed world.”—Jay Wright, Second Conversations with Ogotemmêli (‘The First Word’)
“Everyone will die… and the universe will not even notice. We’ve been through this before, Laurie. You argued that human life was more significant than this excellent desolation, and I was not convinced. You attempted to compare the mere uncertainty in your existence with the chaos of the world beneath us… but where are the pinnacles to rival this Olympus? Where are the depths to match those of… ahh, but we near the Valles Marineris. You may see for yourself. It stretches more than three thousand miles, so that one end knows day while the other endures night. Temperature differences breed shrieking winds that herd oceans of fog along a canyon four miles deep. Does the human heart know chasms so abysmal?”—Alan Moore The Watchmen (via fatefavorsnoone)
Sooner or later they will catch us and they will kill us. They will rape me. They’ll rape him. They are going to rape us and kill us and eat us and you won’t face it. You’d rather wait for it to happen. But I can’t. I can’t. She sat there smoking a slender length of dried grapevine as if it were some rare cheroot. Holding it with a certain elegance, her other hand across her knees where she’d drawn them up. She watched him across the small flame. We used to talk about death, she said. We dont any more. Why is that?
I don’t know.
It’s because it’s here. There’s nothing left to talk about.
I wouldn’t leave you.
I don’t care. It’s meaningless. You can think of me as a faithless slut if you like. I’ve taken a new lover. He can give me what you cannot.
Al fondo, una mesa y dos sillas. Brígida me indicó una. Me senté. La mesa era redonda y su superficie estaba cubierta de muescas y nombres, la mayoría ininteligibles. La camarera permaneció de pie, a pocos centímetros de mí, vigilante como una diosa o como un ave de rapiña. Tal vez esperaba a que yo le pidiera que se sentara. Conmovido por su timidez, así lo hice. Para mi sorpresa, procedió a sentarse sobre mis rodillas. La situación era incómoda y sin embargo a los pocos segundos noté con espanto que mi naturaleza, divorciada de mi intelecto, de mi alma, incluso de mis peores deseos, endurecía mi verga hasta un límite imposible de disimular. Brígida seguramente se apercibió de mi estado pues se levantó y, tras volver a estudiarme desde lo alto, me propuso un guagüis.
—Un guagüis, ¿quieres que te haga un guagüis?
La miré sin comprender, aunque como un nadador solitario y exhausto la verdad poco a poco se fue abriendo paso en el mar negro de mi ignorancia. Ella me devolvió la mirada. Tenía los ojos duros y planos. Y una característica que la distinguía de entre todos los seres humanos que yo hasta entonces conocía: miraba siempre (en cualquier lugar, en cualquier situación, pasara lo que pasara) a los ojos. La mirada de Brígida, decidí entonces, podía ser insoportable.
—No sé de qué hablas —dije.
—De mamártela, mi vida.
”—Roberto Bolaño, Los detectives salvajes (via rever-ie)
“Sometimes I quite suddenly lose the whole thread of my life: sitting in some corner of the universe, near a smoky dark cafe, polished bits of metal set out before me, tall, mild-mannered women ebbing and flowing around me, I wonder how I finally washed up here beneath this arch that is really the bridge they have named sky. This is the moment of oblivion, the moment when vast fissures in the Palace of the World widen into daylight: I would give up the rest of my life—a paltry sum—if only it could endure. For then the mind detaches a little from the human machine and I am no longer the bicycle of my senses, a grindstone honing memories and encounters. And then I grasp chance within me. I grasp all of a sudden how I surpass myself: I am chance, and having formed this proposition I laugh at the thought of all human activity.”—From A Wave of Dreams by Louis Aragon, trans. Susan de Muth (via bareblu)
“Elisabet? Can I read you something from my book? Or am I disturbing you? It says here:”All the anxiety we bear with us, all our thwarted dreams, the incomprehensible cruelty, our fear of extinction, the painful insight into our earthly condition, have slowly eroded our hope of an other-wordly salvation. The howl of our faith and doubt against the darkness and silence, is one of the most awful proofs of our abandonment and our terrified, unuttered knowledge.” Do you think it’s like that?”—Persona, Ingmar Bergman (via nminusone)