“The reassuring lesson of fantasy is that “I was brought about with a special purpose”. At the end of psychoanalytic treatment, instead of being bothered of what I am for the others, I fully assume the uttermost contingency of my being. The subject becomes ‘cause of itself’ in the sense of no longer looking for a guarantee of his or her existence in another’s desire.”—http://zizek.livejournal.com/2266.html (via jujutsu-with-zizek)
“Philosophy becomes tortured thinking. Thinking that devours itself—and continues intact and even flourishes, in spite (or perhaps because) of the repeated acts of self-cannibalism. In the passion play of thought, the thinker plays the roles of both protagonist and antagonist. He is both suffering Prometheus and the remorseless eagle who consumes his perpetually regenerated entrails.”—Susan Sontag, from “Thinking Against Oneself: Reflections on Cioran” (via blackestdespondency)
i don’t understand the constant conflation of calling out people, particularly women, with attacking them on the basis of their appearance, thus reinforcing misogynistic beauty ideals. madonna and lena dunham, for instance (to be topical) have both lead careers marked by racism….
“‘it is … the point from which we are observed which … determines the image, the imaginary form in which we appear likeable to ourselves’.”—S. Zizek [The point from which i am observed is structuring me, making me part of the Symbolic, because it pins me to this point, by focusing on that ‘which is seen by the Other and is in me more than myself’] (via jujutsu-with-zizek)
“Before language there is the fire that bites but doesn’t kill, the evil that, like all pain, separates us, the dehiscence that opens in us closed organs, making us seem strange to ourselves – and all that begins with: ‘when you don’t say anything to anybody – that’s it – it’s love.’ It begins with the kept secret, with the silent separation from the rest of the world. You love yourself [on s’aime]: you sow [on seme]. You throw the others off track. You go underground. You leave the world in broad daylight. You betray it. You’re cheating. It’s a crime. It’s kind of glory. Love abjures in order to adore. It burns in your breast and the rest of the world is burned. (….) one begins speaking the language that no one else speaks – a language that is spoken only by two. By these two undivided individuals, a language [langue] that makes of two but one, especially when it’s your tongue [langue] that I have in my mouth. (…) But the amorous break also speaks of the danger of winning. The danger is when you create a world, designed as a whole and for a whole people, made of two individuals. (…) That which gives, gives to enjoy, that which gives to enjoy, gives to fear its loss. Give to lose. The gift and its opposite.”—Helene Cixous, Love of the Wolf (via jacobwren)
found on the back of an envelope from Helen Vendler, 1.28.1981
You came one day and as usual in such matters significance filled everything— your eyes, the things you knew, the way you turned, learned, stood, or sat, this way or that: when you left, the area around here rose a tilted tide, and everything that offers desolation drained away.
—A. R. Ammons, from The Paris Review (Spring 2003, No. 165)
“[In a dream] the show is being put on for someone who is not watching it in person and who does not have the status of a subject who is present. If dreams seem so foreign, it is because we find ourselves in the situation of strangers; and we are strangers precisely because the dreamer’s self lacks any sense of true self. One could almost say that there is nobody in the dream, and therefore, in a certain fashion, that there is nobody to dream it”—Maurice Blanchot, “Dreaming Writing” (via jujutsu-with-zizek)
“You sober people who feel well armed against passion and fantasies and would like to turn your emptiness into a matter of pride and an ornament: you call yourselves realists and hint that the world really is the way it appears to you. As if reality stood unveiled before you only, and you yourselves were perhaps the best part of it—O you beloved images of Sais! But in your unveiled state are not even you still very passionate and dark creatures compared to fish, and still far too similar to an artist in love? And what is “reality” for an artist in love? You are still burdened with those estimates of things that have their origin in the passions and loves of former centuries. Your sobriety still contains a secret and inextinguishable drunkenness. Your love of “reality,” for example—oh, that is a primeval “love.” Every feeling and sensation contains a piece of this old love; and some fantasy, some prejudice, some unreason, some ignorance, some fear, and ever so much else has contributed to it and worked on it. That mountain there! That cloud there! What is “real” in that? Subtract the phantasm and every human contribution from it, my sober friends! If you can! If you can forget your descent, your past, your training—all of your humanity and animality. There is no “reality” for us—not for you either, my sober friends. We are not nearly as different as you think, and perhaps our good will to transcend intoxication is as respectable as your faith that you are altogether incapable of intoxication.”—Friedrich Nietzsche, “To the realists,” The Gay Science, §57 (via ounu)
“Talking about dreams is like talking about movies, since the cinema uses the language of dreams; years can pass in a second and you can hop from one place to another. It’s a language made of image. And in the real cinema, every object and every light means something, as in a dream.”—Federico Fellini (via fetalfawn)
“I feel I must burst because of all that life offers me and because of the prospect of death. I feel that I am dying of solitude, of love, of despair, of hatred, of all that this world offers me. With every experience I expand like a balloon blown up beyond its capacity. The most terrifying intensification bursts into nothingness. You grow inside, you dilate madly until there are no boundaries left, you reach the edge of light, where light is stolen by night, and from that plenitude as in a savage whirlwind you are thrown straight into nothingness. Life breeds both plenitude and void, exuberance and depression. What are we when confronted with the interior vortex that which swallows us into absurdity ? I feel my life cracking within me from too much intensity, too much disequilibrium. It is like an explosion which cannot be contained, which throws you up in the air along with everything else. At the edge of life you feel that you are no longer master of the life within you, that subjectivity is an illusion, and that uncontrollable forces are seething inside you, evolving with no relation to a personal center or a definite, individual rhythm. At the edge of life everything is an occasion for death. You die because of all there is and all there is not. Every experience is in this case a leap into nothingness.”—Emil Cioran, On the Heights of Despair (via blackestdespondency)