Mutter, ich bin dumm

"Es ist alles lächerlich, wenn man an den Tod denkt"
―T. B.

remikanazi:

If Palestinians viciously ran over a five year old Israeli girl, it would be a top story on CNN. But since the murdered girl is Palestinian and the murderers were settlers…oh well.

“[…] Duras’s greatest model is the labyrinth, with its obscure, deceptive passageways that mislead those who have not already fallen into the traps set by governing bodies, social institutions and slick hustlers. And like her readers, she can never change course, nor can she escape from her blind alleys. That is why she is so stunned, like those who love her, by its surprises, literally “ravished” by the difficulties with crossroads, switchboxes, bifurcations, intersections, detours, and junctions. Ravished to be in a closed circuit.
[…] There lies Duras’s place, that of pain and malediction, this “disease of death” that possesses her and reveals the impossibility of God.
[…] God is so present in the writing that his name has “become,” she says, “a comon noun” — “it is everything, it is nothing,” but it is an appeal, and remains the object of her quest.
She always appeals to the religious, ‘this silent impulse, stronger than anyone, and unjustifiable’, the incomprehensible staring us in the face, a force that language cannot possibly describe, stumbling miserably, time after time, something unknown that can only be expressed in a stuttering voice, through silence, or words gasped out and, for want of anything better, finding breath enough to say: ‘The noise, you know? … of God? … that thing? …’ […]”

Alain Vircondelet, ‘Duras: A Biography’, [via].

PHILIPPEAU: Peace is in God.

DANTON: In nothingness. What offers more peace, more oblivion, than nothingness? And if ultimate peace is God, then doesn’t that mean that God is nothingness? But I’m an atheist! How I curse the dictum that ‘something can’t become nothing’! And I am something, that’s the misery of it!

Creation’s so rank and rampant that no void is left, there’s seething and swarming wherever you turn.

Nothing has killed itself, creation is its wound, we are the drops of its blood, the world the grave in which it slowly rots.

Georg Büchner, ‘Danton’s Death’, [via].

“La vie m’est devenue un amer breuvage que je dois cependant absorber comme des gouttes, lentement, une à une, en comptant.”

Søren Kierkegaard, Diapsalmata (via)