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"(The monument of psychoanalysis must be traversed—not bypassed—like the fine thoroughfares of a very large city, across which we can play, dream, etc.: a fiction.)"

RB, The Pleasure of The Text

I wonder what Lacan thought of RB and what they interacted like in person. 

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"To be with the one I love and to think of something else: this is how I have my best ideas, how I best invent what is necessary to my work."

RB, The Pleasure of the Text

i believe him too

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"Noch ist Polen nicht verloren,—
Denn es lebt Nietzky noch"

Nietzsche, manuscript to Ecce Homo

don’t even know what to make of this

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"to break through the constraint of adjectives — which are those doors of language through which the ideological and the imaginary come flowing in."

— Barthes, The Pleasure of the Text

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"In fact, it suffices that the cinema capture the sound of speech close up (this is, in fact, the generalized definition of the ‘grain’ of writing) and make us hear in their materiality, their sensuality, the breath, the gutturals, the fleshiness of the lips, a whole presence of the human muzzle (that the voice, that writing, be as fresh, supple, lubricated, delicately granular and vibrant as an animal’s muzzle), to succeed in shifting the signifies a great distance and in throwing, so to speak, the anonymous body of the actor into my ear: it granulates, it crackles, it caresses, it grates, it cuts, it comes: that is bliss"

— Barthes, the pleasure of the text

Photo
libertarians

libertarians

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"The famous gesture of Adam covering his genitals with a fig leaf is, according to Augustine, not due to the simple fact that Adam was ashamed of their presence, but to the fact that his sexual organs were moving by themselves without his consent. Sex in erection is the image of man revolted against God. The arrogance of sex is the punishment and consequence of the arrogance of man. His uncontrolled sex is exactly the same as what he himself has been towards God – a rebel."

— Foucault, “Sexuality and Solitude.”

This is a good one. 

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"Das Schreiben versagt sich mir. Daher Plan der selbstbiographischen Untersuchungen. Nicht Biographie, sondern Untersuchung und Auffindung möglichst kleiner Bestandteile. Daraus will ich mich dann aufbauen so wie einer, dessen Haus unsicher ist, daneben ein sicheres aufbauen will, womöglich aus dem Material des alten. Schlimm ist es allerdings wenn mitten im Bau seine Kraft aufhört und er jetzt statt eines zwar unsichern aber doch vollständigen Hauses, ein halbzerstörtes und ein halbfertiges hat, also nichts. Was folgt ist Irrsinn, also etwa ein Kosakentanz zwischen den zwei Häusern, wobei der Kosak mit den Stiefelabsätzen die Erde solange scharrt und auswirft, bis sich unter ihm sein Grab bildet."

Kafka, Tagebuch 1921/22. 

A pretty hilarious Kafkaesque Gedankengang — cossack dance ?

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"Es sei an Kants “Kritik der reinen Vernunft”, an Hegels “Phänomenologie des Geistes” erinnert. An solchen Zeichen erkennen wir, daß die Welt seit langer Zeit schon aus den Fugen und der Mensch in die Abirrung gegangen ist."

Heidegger, Parmenides.

heh. ol’ marty throwing shade

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"We are not meant to live thus, Sir. Flaming swords I say my Philip presses into me, swords that are not words; but they are neither flaming swords nor are they words. It is like a contagion, saying one thing always for another (like a contagion, I say: barely did I hold myself back from saying, a plague of rats, for rats are everywhere about us these days). Like a wayfarer (hold the figure in mind, I pray you), like a wayfarer I step into a mill, dark and disused, and feel of a sudden the floorboards, rotten with the wetness, give way beneath my feet and plunge me into the racing mill-waters; yet as I am that (a wayfarer in a mill) I am also not that; nor is it a contagion that comes continually upon me or a plague of rats or flaming swords, but something else. Always it is not what I say but something else. Hence the words I wrote above: We are not meant to live thus. Only for extreme souls may it have been intended to live thus, where words give way beneath your feet like rotting boards (like rotting boards I say again, I cannot help myself, not if I am to bring home to you my distress and my husband’s, bring home I say, where is home, where is home?)."

"Letter of Elizabeth, Lady Chandos, to Francis Bacon" — postscript to Coetzee’s Elizabeth Costello

Lady Chandos on the challenges of différance