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ptoliporthos
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| "The strange is only this inexplicit familiarity insofar as it has been shaken up and awakened and is now being encountered in the character of unfamiliarity. This lack of familiarity is not merely something occasional, but rather belongs to the very temporality of the world's being-encountered. The familiarity is disturbed, and this disturbable familiarity is what gives to the contingent "otherwise than one thought" the recalcitrant sense of its there." ""The opposite of gaudium," he finally said to himself - "a sadness accompanied by the recollection of a past event that flouted all of our expectations." Ethics III, prop. XVIII, schol. I.II. " "Here something has unexpectedly gone wrong." | ||||
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| I am constantly reminded each day that people other than your self are not worth the effort, no matter much they may appear otherwise. This is something I would have thought I would have learned by now. Why do I err perpetually? | ||||
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| polla ta deina kouden anthrôpou deinoteron pelei But say I: polla ta deina koudeis emou deinoteron pelei Sappho, dark and small, small and dark, dark and small "ten or eleven" there was a time, I think, but maybe there wasn't, you know, it can be confusing let me know "Polish, Czech, or Hungarian." you know, living alone "that's how old you like them." "no Jews" - the anti-semitism doesn't even bother me anymore However, "all anti-semites should be shot." Jimmy's: "I really want to get syphilis. It is my goal in life. That, and alcoholism. God, if I had syphilis I'd be a genius. You know like in the Ibsen play Ghosts. Future aside - Sex with spirits. I know about that." "God that's a good pick up line. "Do you have syphilis, cuz I want it?'" no longer Jimmy's: You know, I used to, before | ||||
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| Filling her compact & delicious body with chicken paprika, she glanced at me twice. Fainting with interest, I hungered back and only the fact of her husband & four other people kept me from springing on her or falling at her little feet and crying "You are the hottest one for years of night Henry's dazed eyes have enjoyed, Brilliance.' I advanced upon (despairing) my spumoni. - Sir Bones: is stuffed, de world, wif feeding girls. -Black hair, complexion Latin, jewelled eyes downcast...The slob beside her feasts...What wonders is she sitting on, over there? The restuarant buzzes. She might as well be on Mars. Where did it all go wrong? There ought to be a law against Henry. - Mr. Bones: there is. | ||||||
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| Every one I know and love (including my self) is either a nihilist with alcoholic tendencies, a graduate student, or a christian. I often wonder which within these neat little categories is more deluded. Cheers! | ||||
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| Watching tennis, with a voyeurs pleasure, outside my window. She has horrendously bad form, which is why it is all the more endearing. An awkward little shuffle, tip-toed reaches, and a precious, high floating foot on backhands. Complete with a beasty (boy)friend who couldn't possibly appreciate my perspective, incessantly keeping score of a nonexistent game. I have need and desire for a good cup of coffee, which oddly make me nostalgic for drinking porter (Stoney Brook Vanilla) out on the porch on a lazy sunday morning. The smoke from her cigarette dancing in the sunlight, adding, not detracting, to the strange motley of brilliance that only a philistine would call her hair. Or, those carefree sunday drives of a much later (or earlier, perhaps) love that always somehow tempted fate, if not constantly courting death and never stayed within its allotted ripeness, to say the least. I "slept" for an inappropriate amount of time, but rather than resting, spent most of my time in a delirious state, attempting to find solutions to a persistent problem, which, upon really waking, could not even be put within a nonsensical thought, though in a half-sleep state it had been the anxious bane of my existence. Also had a dream involving people I knew and did not know and people I knew. Resting my weary head upon her shoulder on a bench feeling the warmth of her body, but not at all of her words. Eventually ordering a single malt scotch (neat, please!!!) in a classroom of my catholic upbringing. Strange. My hands shake all the time now (and they have for a while), which I imagine is an indication of premature death. Library scene. "Have you ever thought of abstinence?" "Absinthe," I said. "No, abstinence," she replied. "What do you mean?" me dumbfounded. "Abstaining from sex and alcohol." "Wha, why?" me dumbfounded. "Because, it seems like all of your problem rest upon drinking and your obsession with romantic love." me paraphrasing what she said. "Problems, I don't have any problems. Besides what else is there than love and death." me paraphrasing what I said. heh. | ||||
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| Her flimsy, loose frock happened to be so deeply cut out behind that whenever she concaved her back while moving her prominent scapulae to and fro and tilting her head - as with air-poised brush she surveyed her damp achievement, or with the outside of her left wrist wiped a strand of hair off her temple - Van, who had drawn up to her seat as close as he dared, could see down her sleek ensellure as far as her coccyx and inhale the warmth of her entire body. His heart thumping, one miserable hand deep in his trouser pocket - where he kept a purse with half a dozen ten-dollar gold pieces to disguise his state- he bent over her, as she bent over her work. Very lightly he let his parched lips travel down her warm hair and hot nape. It was the sweetest, the strongest, the most mysterious sensation that the boy had ever experienced; nothing in his sordid venery of the past winter could duplicate that downy tenderness, that despair of desire. He would have lingered forever on the middle knob of rounded delight on the back of her neck, had she kept inclined forever - and had the unfortunate fellow been able to endure much longer the ecstasy of its under his wax-still mouth without rubbing against her with mad abandon. The vivid crimsoning of an exposed ear and the gradual torpor invading her paintbrush were the only signs - fearful signs- of her feeling the increased pressure of his caress. Silently he would slink away to his room, lock the door, grasp a towel, uncover himself, and call forth the image he had just left behind, an image still as safe and bright as hand-cupped flame - carried into the dark, only to be got rid of there with savage zeal; after which, drained for a while, with shaky loins and weak calves, Van would return to the purity of the sun-suffused room where a little girl, now glistening with sweat, was still painting her flower: the marvelous flower that simulated a bright moth that in turn simulated a scarab. If the relief, any relief, of a lad's ardor had been Van's sole concern; if, in other words, no love had been involved, our young friend might have put up - for one casual summer - with the nastiness and ambiguity of his behavior. But since Van loved Ada, that complicated release could not be an end in itself; or, rather, it was only a dead end, because not liable to melt into any subsequent phase of incomparably greater rapture which, like a misty summit beyond the fierce mountain pass, promised to be the true pinnacle of his perilous relationship with Ada. During that mid-summer week or fortnight, notwithstanding those daily butterfly kisses on that hair, on that neck, Van felt even farther removed from her than he had been on the eve of the day when his mouth had accidentally come into contact with an inch of her skin hardly perceived by him sensually in the maze of the shattal tree. But nature is motion and growth. One afternoon he came up behind her in the music room more noiselessly than ever before because he happened to be barefooted - and, turning her head, little Ada shut her eyes and pressed her lips to his in a freshrose kiss that entranced and baffled Van. | ||||||
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| Ever since I was a little un, perhaps particularly in my nonage, I have suffered from an acute fear of death. I fancy myself to be a nihilist, an ironist at times as well, but never could I imagine the complete freedom allotted to those true hyperboreans. Life has taken on new meaning for me. I feel like up to this day it has all been play acting, perhaps preparation and rehearsal. For instance, though I am known to my near and dear as an alcoholic, I've never quite lived up to the epithet - I have never woken up extremely hung over and decided to start drinking early in the morning (for us in the know, 10:00 a.m. is early). Oh, about death, it's amazing, but I am cured. I have never quite understood those people who say they fear not their own most, nonrelational, certain, and as such indefinite and not to be bypassed possibilty (and other such Heideggerian platitudes). I always assumed the dreaded inauthentic (except for Socrates, crazy fucker). I use to be quite the Heideggerian - all that concern and shit, then I grew up into a selfish, pessimistic asshole, as is only teleologically neccessary. By the by, it's kind of pleasant to walk into a liquor store looking like complete shit and buy an absurd amount of alcohol early in the morning, as I can attest to. Remember Rules of the Game, whom did that German bitch really love, obviously not her husband, but the pilot or her best friend. That reminds me of a story. But I suppose someone got shot in the end, as is only fitting for that idealist Renoir. I remember Lollipop - "He likes to kiss me till I can't see straight." Sweet, if it wasn't so inane. I suppose love is really a game meant for entertainment, but it is difficult to categorize given the apparent lack of rules. For instance can one "be in love" with their best friend as in Renoir. I at least don't think it is proper, cuz you might be losing too much, and someone in the end gets shot - the pilot I suppose. I went to "uncle bob's" lecture yesterday - fucking sell out. "Bourgeois Philosophy" - fuck him. To me, it seems that his entire life is being spent justifying his bourgeois life through Hegel. I smiled mockingly at "the great philosopher", and my resolve to waste my life (with a pizza delivery girl) was strengthened. "Business as usual", I said - but there is a huge qualification that has crept up from that dark place like hell on earth - Sophoclean revelations are so amusing. It is "Good Friday", that too is amusing. True misogyny festers only in the morbidly sensitive and paedophilic. I listened in on a womanly conversation yesterday. "Do you think you will get back together" "I don't know" - the insensitivity was nauseating. My misanthropy, too, has been strengthened. All concern has been completely dispelled. There is no longer anything holding me back from my true destiny as a good for nothing. I so hoped to share, but, of course, the tendency of amorous activities lapsing into the bourgeois hell gives me much comfort even in this strange new and exciting setting of extreme unheimlichkeit. | ||||||
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| "Despite our tiffs, despite her nastiness, despite all the fuss and faces she made, and the vulgarity, and the danger, and the horrible hopelessness of it all, I still dwelled deep in my elected paradise - a paradise whose skies were the color of hell-flames - but still a paradise." | ||||||
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| Remember, ω φιλη, "But just as commonplace people do not have an an sich but can simply become anything, so also the ironist has none. But this is not simply because he is merely a product of his environment. On the contrary, he stands above his whole environment, but in order really to live poetically, really and throughly to be able to create himself poetically, the ironist must have no an sich. In this way irony itself lapses into that which it is fighting the hardest, because an ironist comes to have a certain resemblance to an altogether commonplace person, except that the ironist has the negative freedom with which he stands, poetically creating, above himself. Therefore the ironist frequently become nothing, because what is not true for God is true of man - out of nothing comes nothing. But the ironist continually preserves his poetic freedom, and when he notices that he is becoming nothing, he includes that in his poetizing; and, as is well known, it is part and parcel of the poetic poses that positions in life that irony promoted -indeed, to become nothing at all is the most superior of them all." - The Concept of Irony | ||||||
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| "Perverted, twisted, crippled." She underlines the word "crippled." | ||||
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| EDDIE What did you say that for, Sarah? SARAH How did you know my name was Sarah? EDDIE You told me. SARAH I lied. When I'm drunk I lie. EDDIE Okay. So what's your name today? SARAH Sarah. | ||||
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| "I look around for my girls, but they're gone, of course. There wasn't anybody but some young married screaming with her children about some candy they didn't get by the door of a powder-blue Falcon station wagon. Looking back in the big windows, over the bags of peat moss and aluminum lawn furniture stacked on the pavement, I could see Lengel in my place in the slot, checking the sheep through. His face was dark gray and his back stiff, as if he'd just had an injection of iron, and my stomach kind of fell as I felt how hard the world was going to be to me hereafter." John Updike "This too will pass." | ||||||
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| Antonius Block: I want to confess as best I can, but my heart is void. The void is a mirror. I see my face and see loathing and horror. My indifference to men has shut me out. I live now in a world of ghosts. A prisoner in my dreams. Death: Yet you do not want to die. Antonius Block: Yes I do. Death: What are you waiting for? Antonius Block: Knowledge. Death: You want a guarantee. Antonius Block: Call it what you will. Is it so hard to conceive God with ones senses? Why must he hide in the midst of vague promises and invisible miracles? How are we to believe the believers when we don't believe ourselves? What will become of us who want to believe, but cannot? And what of those who neither will nor can believe? Why can I not kill God within me? Why does He go on living in a painful, humiliating way? I want to tear him out of my heart, but he remains a mocking reality which I cannot get rid of. Do you hear me? Death: I hear you. Antonius Block: I want knowledge. Not belief. Not surmise. But knowledge. I want God to put out his hand, show his face, speak to me. Death: But he is silent. Antonius Block: I cry to Him in the dark, but there seems to be no one there. Death: Perhaps there is no one there. Antonius Block: Then life is a senseless terror. No man can live with death and know that everything is nothing. Death: Most people think neither of Death nor of nothingness. Antonius Block: Until they stand at the edge of life and see the Darkness. Death: Ah, that day. Antonius Block: I see. We must make an idol of our fear and call it God. | ||||||
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| I am unsure if our need (not merely desire) to relate to others is deeply rooted in self-loathing or narcissism. If we were really satisfied with ourselves why would we need to relate to others emotionally or even physically for that matter (physically meaning the physical presence of another person to do such things as "hang out" which I find leads to the horrible reification of the human by those who can't really understand what authentic friendship is). We need friends because we want to be changed, to be challenged, to learn and gain perspectives hitherto unavailing. Perhaps because of the secret (or obvious in some cases, I suppose) dissatisfaction we find with ourselves. We want to be loved because we find it difficult to love ourselves. Our loved ones often bring the best out of us, but are also willing to accept those parts of us that are repugnant. We are loved for who we are, not for what we are. Then again, we search out people who are, in some intrinsic or fundamental way, similar to us. We love them because we see ourselves, sometimes find ourselves, in them. We can't love others until we love ourselves, for by what other precedent could we make such qualifications - she receives the world in the same way I do, lives as I do, feels as I do. I love her because I love myself -. We want to reaffirm our love of self by being loved by someone we can love like our self, Hegelian recognition I suppose. In either case are we not constantly using humans for our own purposes, shall we say even using and manipulating them as object? It seems silly to compare, but what is really the difference between a loving relationship and a casual sexual experience, if in both cases the other person is merely being used for self-satisfaction. Perhaps the "merely" is the difference, but its hard to say in what way. It may be the case that our ethics require isolationism | ||||
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| Fritz Lang (Playing a director who is either himself or not himself): Furchtlos bleibt, aber, wo er es muss, der Mann Einsam vor Gott, es schuetzet die Einfalt ihn, Und keiner Waffen brauchts und keiner Listen, so lange, bis Gottes Fehl hilft. Ms. Vanini: "But man, when he must can stand fearless and alone before God His candor is his shield He needs niether arms nor wiles Until such time as God's absence helps him" Fritz Lang: Fine Ms. Vanini: That's Hoelderlin, isn't it? Fritz Lang: Yes, "The Poet's Vocation" (Dichterberuf) The final line is obscure. Hoelderlin originally wrote. "so lange Gott nicht fehlend ist" Ms. Valini: So long as God is not absent. Fritz Lang: and then... "so lange Gott nahe ist" Ms. Vanini; So long as God is close to us. Fitz Lang: Yes, the way the last lines are writen, when you've read the other two, it is no longer about God's presence. It's God's absence that reassures man. | ||||||
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| ""The opposite of gaudium," he finally said to himself - "a sadness accompanied by the recollection of a past event that flouted all of our expectations." Ethics III, prop. XVIII, schol. I.II. Mischief-makers overtaken by punishments have for thousand of years felt in respect of their "transgressions" just as Spinoza did: "here something has unexpectedly gone wrong," not "I ought not to have done that." They submitted to punishment as one submits to an illness or misfortune or death, with that stout-hearted fatalism without rebellion through which the Russians, for example, still have an advantage over us Westerners in dealing with life." | ||||
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ptoliporthos
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