A kind of a "dangerous supplement", marked, scarred on a body, post-orgasmically, always, already in anticipation of (a) crisis OR for a desert avec 'agape'. Mindb(l)ogg(l)ing Noise. "Avalanche, would you share my last pursuit?" (Baudelaire)

Sunday, July 30, 2006

the rise of the slightly moustached redish-brown haired ladies

one must always match flights and books

on a plane which fails to take off three times, takes off with an engine that still sounds faulty, this is the captain speaking do not panic, lands again to pick up more weight and again sounds like a disaster when it takes off

I must admit I have read many books. When I disappear, all those volumes will change imperceptibly; the margins will become wider, the thought more cowardly. Yes, I have talked to too many people, I am struck by that now; to me, each person was an entire people. That vast other person made me much more than I would have liked. Now my life is surprisingly secure; even fatal diseases find me too tough. I'm sorry, but I must bury a few others before I bury myself.

on a plane, going back to a new place, with just a pair of trousers, a shirt and a memory stick, [only] the first chapter of the greek translation

Στην περίπτωση της έννοιας του Άλλου ως έκφρασης ενός δυνατού κόσμου στα πλαίσια ενός αντιληπτικού πεδίου, οδηγούμαστε στο να θεωρήσουμε με νέο τρόπο τις συνιστώσες αυτού του πεδίου ως προς αυτό το ίδιο: ο άλλος, χωρίς να είναι πλέον ούτε υποκείμενο του πεδίου, ούτε αντικείμενο εντός του πεδίου, θα αποτελέσει τον όρο βάσει του οποίου αναδιανέμονται όχι τα περιθώρια και το κέντρο, το κινιτό [πράγμα] και το σημείο αναφοράς, το φευγαλέο και το ουσιαστικό, το μήκος και το βάθος...

then, on a flight that resides in the midst of a journey, between waking and sleep, waiting for further feet and trains, so that you lose half of the book because you read it in your sleep, such as

- You remind me of Antisthenes, the prophessor said, a disciple of Gorgias, the sophist. It is said of him that none could tell if he were bitterer against others or against himself. He was the son of a noble and a bond-woman. And he wrote a book in which he took away the palm of beauty from Argive Helen and handed it to poor Penelope.
Poor Penelope. Penelope Rich.
They made ready to cross O'Connell street.


and on going back, for the first time, with no foolish patience for irrealisms or sufficient reasons, quite willing to abandon literature

Everything here seems chaotic. Do you see those little streams? Not one of them runs in a straight line. And those ponds, which are neither round, nor square, nor oval, nor regular in any shape or form? And all these little pointed particles sticking up like bristles all over the globe and which have torn the skin off my feet? [...] Frankly, what makes me think there is no one here is that, as I see it, no one with any sense would want to live here.

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