When I think of my existence, placed here on an unexplained globe, rotating in an even more inexplicable space;
When I think of the “unreality” of life, of no man ever knowing another, being mere phantoms, half-dreams in the ideas of other’s consciousness for which we haven’t the slightest intimation;
When I think of the minutia repeated and accepted not as arbitrary but necessity: time, money, years of education leading to years of labor all to gain a piece of paper signifying a concept we ourselves devised;
And when I think of the mutability of it all, the fragility: others leaving this place minute by minute, us too waiting for our inevitable retreat, with no rational or plausible justification for belief in anything “on the other side,”
… How absurd and sad it is, we spend our days eluding these very thoughts, forgetting the strangeness of it all; and it seems to me, the only necessary proof of man’s stupidity (the only necessary proof that we, indeed, have no redeemable value, no right to exist) is that we do not spend our entire lives—infinitesimal, unrepeatable, short as they may be—ceaselessly thinking these thoughts, ceaselessly fixed on our impermanence, our strange occupation in the unknown vastnesses of the skies, which very well may be no more than dreams themselves.
4:46 pm 27 notes
— Friedrich Nietzsche, “On Truth and Lies in a Nonmoral Sense”
9:58 pm 72 notes
— Gunnar Ekelöf, “When one has come as far”
9:47 pm 28 notes
11:44 am 10 notes
The signature is a kind of death
10:15 pm 3,534 notes
Death certificate, 1923, from New Brunswick, Canada
5:44 pm 13 notes
If words could hold this world / they would bend themselves to one transparency.
3:49 pm 14 notes
give me poison for death or dreams for life
asceticm shall soon come to an end in the / gates of the moon which the sun
has already blessed / and although unbetrothed to reality the dreams
of the dead man shall stop mourning his fate
father I will to your heaven my eye as / a blue drop in the sea
the black world bends itself no more for alms / and psalms
but thousand year old winds comb the loose / hair / of the trees
wells slake the invisible wanderer’s thirst
four directions stand empty around the bier
and the muslin of the angels is changed
by a magic wand
— Gunnar Ekelöf, “Apothesis”
11:12 pm 104 notes
"Because ‘the I’ is the miracle of ‘the You’, because the self depends upon the stranger, who is always an other. For are we not strangers to ourselves, do we not, in the deepest reaches of our unconscious, harbor unrecognizable selves?"
— Richard Stamelman, “The Graven Silence of Writing,” From the Book to the Book: An Edmond Jabès Reader
3:17 pm 39 notes
“Hope: the following page. Do not close the book.”
“I have turned all the pages of the book without finding hope.”
“Perhaps hope is the book.””
— Edmond Jabès, Return to the Book
12:01 pm 33 notes
"A poem is a manifestation of an invisible poem that exists beyond the conventional languages. Therefore, a translation of a poem into a new language is an opportunity to attempt to realize the original (invisible) poem."
— Tomas Tranströmer
"Translation is an art of analogy, the art of finding correspondences. An art of shadows and echoes. Baudelaire said poetry is essentially analogy. The idea of universal correspondence comes from the idea that language is a microcosmos, a double of the universe. Between the language of the universe and the universe of language, there is a bridge, a link: poetry. The poet, says Baudelaire, is the translator."
11:42 am 62 notes
Don’t ask who you are or who I am
and why what is, is.
Let the professors sort it out,
it’s their job.
Place the scale on the kitchen table
and let reality weigh itself.
Put your coat on.
Turn the light off in the hallway.
Close the door.
Let the dead embalm the dead.
Here we walk now.
The one wearing white rubber boots
The one wearing black rubber boots
And the rain falling on both of us
is the rain.
— Werner Aspenström, ”You and I and the World”
11:27 am 32 notes
The unearthed fragments of this fragment.
This, a sort of quotation.
You were turned slightly toward the century.
When silence lies in wait for the world.
In the language of the other.
Paul Celan was obsessed with hair.
Memories, dreams, even worlds—face a separate sphere.
The space of Time is sound.
You understand: there is no time, no sound.
Not recollections but hallucinations.
These frozen silent figures, over which I wept.
To end with all the signs.
2:54 pm 11 notes
[The world after the end of the world]
In reality the sky isn’t far from or near the land.
In reality death isn’t far from or close to life.
We are always before the river of Heraclitus.
1:59 pm 20 notes
— Immanuel Kant, quoted in Ethics Vindicated: Kant’s Transcendental Legitimation of Moral Discourse
10:33 am 70 notes