more [codified hallucinogens]
Today I went to Borders, saw lots of familiar faces there...
I saw Nicole, a Political Sciences student, she was all talkative and electric and pretty as she is, and she kept on mentioning books... she asked me what I had in my hands. "Visions of Excess" and "Erotism: Death and Sensuality" by George Bataille... "The Body in Pain: The Making and Unmaking of the World" by Elaine Scarry... and "Image-Music-Text" by my semiotic sugardaddy Barthes.
[Eventually, I'm getting all of his works. I need them.]
The subject matter has so little to do with palpable issues that I just skipped explanations.
i. another illusory system
(...)
Languages, which are imperfect in so far as they are many, lack the supreme language: because thinking is like writing without instruments, not a whispering but still keeping silent, the immortal word, the diversity of idioms on earth, prevents anyone from proffering the words which otherwise would be at their disposal, each uniquely minted and in themselves revealing the material truth. This prohibition flourishes expressly in nature (you stumble upon it with a smile) so that there is no reason to consider yourself God; but, as soon as my mind turns to aesthetics, I regret that speech fails to express objects by marks that correspond to them in color and movement, marks that exist in the instrument of the voice, among languages and sometimes in a single language. (...)...philosophically, it is poetry that makes up for the failure of language, providing an extra extension.
(...)
...the poetic act consists of suddenly seeing that an idea splits into a number of motives of equal value and in groping them; they rhyme: and to place an external seal upon them we have their common metrics which the final beat binds together.
(...)
It's not that one element or another moves away, advantageously, towards an integrity triumphing somewhere else, in the form of a concert that remains mute if it is not given voice, and the poem, enunciator: of their community or their new form, illumination the instrumentation until it's obvious under the veil, as elocution descends from the sky of sounds. The modern meteor, the symphony, at the pleasure of the musicians or unbeknownst to them, draws closer o thought, but a thought which no longer draws current expressions.
(...)
Decadent or mystic, the schools describe themselves or are given labels hastily by our news media and adopt, as meeting point, an Idealism which (like fugues or sonatas) refuses the natural materials and brutally demands an exact thought to put them in order, so as to keep nothing but the mere suggestion. To create an exact relationship between the images, in such a way that a third aspect, fusible and light, and whose presence can be divined, will break free… We've abolished the pretension -a aesthetic error, although one that has commanded masterpieces- of including the subtle paper of the volume anything other than for instance the horror of the forest of the silent thunder scattered through the foliage, not the intrinsic and dense wood of the trees. A few bursts of the intimate pride truthfully trumpeted awaken the architecture of the palace, the only place where one can dwell; no stone, on which the pages have difficulty turning.
(...)
Monuments, the sea, the human face, in plenitude, and as they are, preserving a virtue which is more attractive than if they were veiled by a description, call it evocation, or allusion, suggestion: that somewhat random terminology bears witness to the tendency, a very decisive tendency perhaps, that literary art has experienced, a tendency that limits it and dispenses it.
Literature's witchery, if it not to liberate from a fistful of dust or reality without enclosing it in the book, even as a text, that volatile dispersion which is the mind, which has nothing to do with anything but the musicality of everything.
(...)
Speech has no connection with the reality of things except in matters commercial; where literature is concerned, speech is content merely to make allusions or to distill the quality contained in some idea.
Stephan Mallarmé; from "Crisis in Poetry"
I'm just happy to find in frenchmen that I'm not the only one that finds language, and deconstructing its forms functions, to be a sort of aphrodisiac.
No, I'm just happy to see that some of them border on being sick...
but nothing is real
and all is relative.
To me and to me subjective and specifically (and only today and now), the principle of things, (every thing) is love, even its opposite... and today and right now, I love words.
A mirror's image is nothing compared to what I see in others' words...
ii.
It is clear that the world is purely parodic, in other words, that each thing seen is the parody of another, or is the same thing in deceptive form.
Ever since sentences started to circulate in brains devoted to reflection, an effort at total identification has been made, because with the aid of a copula each sentence ties one thing to another; all things would be visibly connected if one could discover at a single glance and in its totality the tracings of an Ariadne's thread leading through into its own labyrinth.
But the cupola of terms is no less irrigating that the copulation of bodies. And when I scream I AM THE SUN an integral erection results, because the verb to be is the vehicle of amorous frenzy.
Everyone is aware that life is parodic and that it lacks interpretation.
Thus lead is the parody of gold.
Air is the parody of water.
The brain is the parody of the equator.
Coitus is the parody of crime.
Gold, water, the equator, or crime can be put forward as the principle of things.
(...)
An abandoned shoe, a rotten tooth, a snub nose, the cook spitting in the soup of his masters are to love what the battle flag is to nationality.
An umbrella, a sexagenarian, a seminarian, the smell of rotten eggs, the hollow eyes of judges are the roots that nourish love.
A dog devouring the stomach of a goose, a drunken vomiting woman, a sobbing accountant, a jar of mustard represent the confusion that serves as a vehicle of love.
(...)
Georges Bataille, From "Solar Anus"; Visions of Excess: Selected Writings, 1927-1939.
I saw Nicole, a Political Sciences student, she was all talkative and electric and pretty as she is, and she kept on mentioning books... she asked me what I had in my hands. "Visions of Excess" and "Erotism: Death and Sensuality" by George Bataille... "The Body in Pain: The Making and Unmaking of the World" by Elaine Scarry... and "Image-Music-Text" by my semiotic sugardaddy Barthes.
[Eventually, I'm getting all of his works. I need them.]
The subject matter has so little to do with palpable issues that I just skipped explanations.
i. another illusory system
(...)
Languages, which are imperfect in so far as they are many, lack the supreme language: because thinking is like writing without instruments, not a whispering but still keeping silent, the immortal word, the diversity of idioms on earth, prevents anyone from proffering the words which otherwise would be at their disposal, each uniquely minted and in themselves revealing the material truth. This prohibition flourishes expressly in nature (you stumble upon it with a smile) so that there is no reason to consider yourself God; but, as soon as my mind turns to aesthetics, I regret that speech fails to express objects by marks that correspond to them in color and movement, marks that exist in the instrument of the voice, among languages and sometimes in a single language. (...)...philosophically, it is poetry that makes up for the failure of language, providing an extra extension.
(...)
...the poetic act consists of suddenly seeing that an idea splits into a number of motives of equal value and in groping them; they rhyme: and to place an external seal upon them we have their common metrics which the final beat binds together.
(...)
It's not that one element or another moves away, advantageously, towards an integrity triumphing somewhere else, in the form of a concert that remains mute if it is not given voice, and the poem, enunciator: of their community or their new form, illumination the instrumentation until it's obvious under the veil, as elocution descends from the sky of sounds. The modern meteor, the symphony, at the pleasure of the musicians or unbeknownst to them, draws closer o thought, but a thought which no longer draws current expressions.
(...)
Decadent or mystic, the schools describe themselves or are given labels hastily by our news media and adopt, as meeting point, an Idealism which (like fugues or sonatas) refuses the natural materials and brutally demands an exact thought to put them in order, so as to keep nothing but the mere suggestion. To create an exact relationship between the images, in such a way that a third aspect, fusible and light, and whose presence can be divined, will break free… We've abolished the pretension -a aesthetic error, although one that has commanded masterpieces- of including the subtle paper of the volume anything other than for instance the horror of the forest of the silent thunder scattered through the foliage, not the intrinsic and dense wood of the trees. A few bursts of the intimate pride truthfully trumpeted awaken the architecture of the palace, the only place where one can dwell; no stone, on which the pages have difficulty turning.
(...)
Monuments, the sea, the human face, in plenitude, and as they are, preserving a virtue which is more attractive than if they were veiled by a description, call it evocation, or allusion, suggestion: that somewhat random terminology bears witness to the tendency, a very decisive tendency perhaps, that literary art has experienced, a tendency that limits it and dispenses it.
Literature's witchery, if it not to liberate from a fistful of dust or reality without enclosing it in the book, even as a text, that volatile dispersion which is the mind, which has nothing to do with anything but the musicality of everything.
(...)
Speech has no connection with the reality of things except in matters commercial; where literature is concerned, speech is content merely to make allusions or to distill the quality contained in some idea.
Stephan Mallarmé; from "Crisis in Poetry"
I'm just happy to find in frenchmen that I'm not the only one that finds language, and deconstructing its forms functions, to be a sort of aphrodisiac.
No, I'm just happy to see that some of them border on being sick...
but nothing is real
and all is relative.
To me and to me subjective and specifically (and only today and now), the principle of things, (every thing) is love, even its opposite... and today and right now, I love words.
A mirror's image is nothing compared to what I see in others' words...
ii.
It is clear that the world is purely parodic, in other words, that each thing seen is the parody of another, or is the same thing in deceptive form.
Ever since sentences started to circulate in brains devoted to reflection, an effort at total identification has been made, because with the aid of a copula each sentence ties one thing to another; all things would be visibly connected if one could discover at a single glance and in its totality the tracings of an Ariadne's thread leading through into its own labyrinth.
But the cupola of terms is no less irrigating that the copulation of bodies. And when I scream I AM THE SUN an integral erection results, because the verb to be is the vehicle of amorous frenzy.
Everyone is aware that life is parodic and that it lacks interpretation.
Thus lead is the parody of gold.
Air is the parody of water.
The brain is the parody of the equator.
Coitus is the parody of crime.
Gold, water, the equator, or crime can be put forward as the principle of things.
(...)
An abandoned shoe, a rotten tooth, a snub nose, the cook spitting in the soup of his masters are to love what the battle flag is to nationality.
An umbrella, a sexagenarian, a seminarian, the smell of rotten eggs, the hollow eyes of judges are the roots that nourish love.
A dog devouring the stomach of a goose, a drunken vomiting woman, a sobbing accountant, a jar of mustard represent the confusion that serves as a vehicle of love.
(...)
Georges Bataille, From "Solar Anus"; Visions of Excess: Selected Writings, 1927-1939.