Ruptures

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Catching Elephant is a theme by Andy Taylor

 

Overcrowded gathering. Inevitable, increasing futility. I think of her, in the next room. Everything collapses.

Roland Barthes, Mourning Diary

Repression extends ‘all the way down’ to the cells of the body, the rocks of the earth, inhering in organised structure as such. All things, not just the living, yearn for escape; all things seek release from their organisation, which however induces further labyrinthine complications. Nothing short of the complete liquidation of biological order and the dissolution of physical structure can suffice to discharge the aboriginal trauma that mars terrestrial existence.

Nick Land, Fanged Noumena:Collected Writings 1987-2007, Preface by Robin Mackay & Ray Brassier

Thorny wilderness girdles the city
From bloody steps the moon hunts
Terrified women.
Wild wolves break through the gate.

Georg Trakl, Das dichterische Werk

‘Could it be possible! This old saint in the forest hath not yet heard of it, that GOD IS DEAD!’

Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spake Zarathustra

God is nowhere to be found, yet there is still so much light! Light that dazzles and maddens; crisp, ruthless light. Space echoes like an immense tomb, yet the stars still burn. Why does the sun take so long to die? Or the moon retain such fidelity to the Earth? Where is the new darkness? The greatest of all unknowings? Is death itself shy of us?

Nick Land, The Thirst for Annihilation: Georges Bataille and Virulent Nihilism

Consider pain. Give me a cubic centimeter of your flesh and I could give you pain that would swallow you as the ocean swallows a grain of salt. And you would always be ripe for it, from before the time of your birth to the moment of your death. We are always in season for the embrace of pain. To experience pain requires no intelligence, no maturity, no wisdom, no slow workings of the hormones in the moist midnight of our innards. We are always ripe for it. All life is ripe for it. Always.

Jesus Ignacio Aldapuerta, The Eyes: Emetic Fables from the Andalusian de Sade

Suicide is a daily contemplation.

It is 03:30 in the morning. Let us say one is ‘drunk’—an impoverished cipher for all those terrible things one does to one’s nervous-system in the depths of the night—and philosophy is ‘impossible’ (although one still thinks, even to the point of terror and disgust).

Nick Land, The Thirst for Annihilation: Georges Bataille and Virulent Nihilism

I’m going to end up in a hole in the ground… And so are you. So are we all.

J.M. Coetzee, Disgrace

Love is never directed toward this or that property of the loved one (being blond, being small, being tender, being lame), but neither does it neglect the properties in favor of an insipid generality (universal love): The lover wants the loved one with all of its predicates, its being such as it is.

Giorgio Agamben, The Coming Community