There is no language in itself, nor are there any linguistic universals, only a throng of dialects, patois, viperslangs, and specialized languages. There is no ideal speaker-listener, any more than there is a homogeneous linguistic community. Language is, in Weinreich’s words, “an essentially heterogeneous reality.” There is no mother tongue, only a power takeover by a dominant language within political multiplicity. Language stabilizes around a parish, a bishopric, a capital. It forms a bulb. It evolves by subterranean stems and flows, along river valleys or train tracks; it spreads like a patch of oil.

Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia 

We do not lack communication. On the contrary, we have too much of it. We lack creation. We lack resistance to the present. Artaud said: to write for the illiterate–to speak for the aphasic, to think for the acephalous. But what does “for” mean? It is not “for their benefit,” or yet “in their place.” It is “before.” It is a question of becoming. The thinker is not acephalic, aphasic, or illiterate, but becomes so. He becomes Indian, and never stops becoming so–perhaps “so that” the Indian who is himself Indian becomes something else and tears himself away from his own agony. We think and write for animals themselves. We become animal so that the animal also becomes something else.

What is Phiosophy?, Gilles Deleuze & Felix Guattari

The slipping-away of an animal into death is no less intricately positive than the arterial pulse pumping blood from its heart. We are all fictional suicides, some impatient, some less so, but all demonstrating by our meticulousness the taciturnity of death. In effect, death is nothing in immanence, but due to the fact that it is nothing, no being is ever truly separated from it.

Were you to stop a short moment: the complex, the gentle, the violent movements of worlds will make of your death a splashing foam.

Georges Bataille

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