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جوری که دنیا رو میبینم. Contact : @Dimitte
On Sunday Afternoon (1996), dir. Jean-Claude Brisseau.
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From Ippolit Terentyev’s "Necessary Explanation", a long monologue in The Idiot (Part III, Chapter 6):Читать полностью…
"For instance, that picture!... That picture! Looking at that picture, you get the impression of nature as some enormous, merciless, and dumb beast, or, to put it better, much better, though it’s still not the whole truth: as some enormous engine of the latest design, which has senselessly seized, crushed, and swallowed up—calmly and unfeelingly—a great and priceless Being; a being who alone was worth all of nature and its laws, who alone was worth the entire earth, which was, perhaps, created solely for the sake of this being!"
"The very thought of such a simple, logical, and, at the same time, most terrible conclusion moves me to terror. If death is so terrible, if the laws of nature are so powerful, then how can they be overcome? How can they be conquered, if even He who conquered nature in His lifetime—if even He was so horribly, so powerlessly subjected to their horror? He who called out, ‘Talitha cumi,’ and the girl arose—He who cried out, ‘Lazarus, come forth!’ and the dead man obeyed—He Himself, after hanging on the cross for six hours, was taken down dead, cold, unresponsive, and—decomposing! The great thought, the great will, which held sway over nature, which commanded nature, the nature which trembled in submission, is now imprisoned in the senseless, dead corpse... And how can this be reconciled? How can one overcome the fact that blind, dumb nature has seized Him and crushed Him, pitilessly, mindlessly, blindly—crushed the great, the incomprehensible, and, most importantly, the all-powerful!"
Dostayevski's "The Idiot", Part II, Chapter 4 (translated by Constance Garnett):Читать полностью…
“That picture! A man could even lose his faith from that picture!” suddenly said Prince Myshkin, almost to himself, as he stood before the painting, in the Rogozhin house.
The painting depicted Christ, lifeless, lying in the tomb. The face, bruised and swollen, bore the unmistakable signs of suffering and decay. Myshkin, with his usual intensity, fixated on it, sensing something deeply unsettling—something that could shake one's very belief in the resurrection. There was nothing divine in the figure, only the cold, harsh reality of death. If this was the fate of even the purest, the holiest—then what of the rest of humanity?
The flowers have withered, Mother.
As if a thousand winters have passed over them. Where did I stop moving, that I now stand so estranged from myself, frozen in place? Hopeless, futureless, selfless. As if time has moved past me. Where are my dreams? Where is that radiant future I once imagined? Where is that great departure? It feels like I have been here for a hundred years— Surrounded by these objects that flaunt my estrangement, Objects that bear witness to my weakness, my frailty, my foolishness.
I have killed them all. I have slain all I have sown. And now these decaying corpses exhale the stench of my rotting dreams.
“When Rilke writes to the countess of Solms-Laubach (August 3, 1907), “For weeks, except for two short interruptions, I haven’t pronounced a single word; my solitude has finally encircled me and I am inside my efforts just as the core is in the fruit.”Читать полностью…
Excerpt From "The Space of Literature" written by Maurice Blanchot.
"Madness is rare in individuals—but in groups, parties, nations, and epochs, it is the rule." (Aphorism 156).
__"Beyond Good and Evil: Prelude to a Philosophy of the Future" by Friedrich Nietzsche.
The book's epigraph is a lengthy quote from The Brothers Karamazov by Dostoevsky ("The Penance of a Fervent Heart—Poem" in Part 3, Book 3);Читать полностью…
[Beauty is a terrible and awful thing! It is terrible because it never has and never can be fathomed, for God sets us nothing but riddles. Within beauty both shores meet and all contradictions exist side by side. I'm not a cultivated man, brother, but I've thought a lot about this. Truly there are mysteries without end! Too many riddles weigh man down on earth. We guess them as we can, and come out of the water dry. Beauty! I cannot bear the thought that a man of noble heart and lofty mind sets out with the ideal of the Madonna and ends with the ideal of Sodom. What's still more awful is that the man with the ideal of Sodom in his soul does not renounce the ideal of the Madonna, and in the bottom of his heart he may still be on fire, sincerely on fire, with longing for the beautiful ideal, just as in the days of his youthful innocence. Yes, man's heart is wide, too wide indeed. I'd have it narrower. The devil only knows what to make of it! but what the intellect regards as shameful often appears splendidly beautiful to the heart. Is there beauty in Sodom? Believe me, most men find their beauty in Sodom. Did you know this secret? The dreadful thing is that beauty is not only terrifying but also mysterious. God and the Devil are fighting there, and their battlefield is the heart of man. But a man's heart wants to speak only of its own ache. Listen, now I'll tell you what it says ..]
Confessions of a Mask by Yukio Mishima, 1949.
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از روی سیم نازکی میدویدم، دیگر درهای نبود که بترسم. زیر پایم چمن بود. باد میآمد و موهایم را میآشفت. باد بوی دریا را میآورد و من به زحمت میتوانستم تعادلم را حفظ کنم. دریا از همهچیز بهتر است!
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امروز به این قطعهی زیبا بارها و بارها گوش دادم .. و تصاویری از گذشته، زیبایی آسمونِ تمیز و سرد اسفند، و امید به زندگیای که پس از سالها تازه برای من شروع شده منو با خودشون به اون دورهای زیبا بردن.
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The first mourning (1888) by William-Adolphe Bouguereau, Pieta.
This work depicts the moment after Adam and Eve just found the body of their son Abel, who was murdered by Cain. This is the first human death recorded in the Bible. The grief is only magnified by the fact that their son did not just die, but was murdered by their other son Cain, making this also the first act of murder.
Arcangelo Corelli
Violin Sonata (Opus 5)
No.1 in D Major: lV. Adagio
Andrew Manze٫ Richard Egarr
With short, bare steps, I walk a long distance over moss and dry bushes, reaching the end of the road. I sit in the heart of the reservoir on the ground beneath me, close to the water's surface. I only need to bend my fingertips to sink into the water. The old scent of the sky that has mingled with the water, along with the faint orange smell of the sun’s rays, settles on my skin. I need to go somewhere, but where? Which nurturing presence in existence will sustain me? Which desert will offer its rocky embrace? What journey am I on? What is this that I clutch so tightly in my fist? What sin weighs down my heavy feet, making each step slow and arduous? I listen to the natural and comforting silence of the water. I dip my toes in, feeling the coolness rise from my skin. A pleasant shiver spreads through me; I am here, I have lived much and kissed lips. Although I am like an orphan child—separated from the greatest source of life, suddenly cut from the umbilical cord—I fell in love with this severance and became estranged in that land. I release the hands that burn day and night in a desperate plea to touch my soul. I am mistakenly cast out from one womb and attached to another’s breast. I wander, wander, wander through the dizzying abundance of wombs, breasts, embraces, and tears.
__ Summer, 2022.
Deranged down, down, down
I'm deranged down, down, down
So cruise me babe, cruise me baby ..
More detailed description of Holbein's The Body of the Dead Christ in the Tomb in The Idiot, found shortly after the first mention:Читать полностью…
“That picture!” said the prince, suddenly, after a moment’s silence. “That picture! But … why, a man could even lose his faith from that picture!”
“Lose it he does,” Rogozhin suddenly replied. It was as if something flashed in his eyes.
The prince looked keenly at him: yes, he had spoken with some peculiar emphasis.
“That picture!” the prince continued as if in deep thought. “Some people may lose their faith by looking at that picture. That picture! A man might even be strangled from seeing it!”
He did not explain what he meant by this strange expression, but continued to gaze at the painting with an expression of some kind of peculiar horror. This was indeed the picture of a dead man who had endured infinite suffering. The face was terrible from the suffering that had been endured; its wounds, its swollen and bruised features spoke of agony that had already begun to break the body down into decomposition. The lips, drawn back in suffering, left the teeth bared in a deathly grimace. The rigidity of death had already taken hold, the fingers, the hands … all bore witness not to a moment of rest, not to the possibility of resurrection, but to destruction, decomposition, and decay.
The prince shuddered as he gazed. ‘Why, this might be a picture of nature itself,’ he suddenly uttered strangely, ‘as though nature had been left alone here, with no God, only blind, merciless force. It is only a dead body now, and there is only decomposition left! The followers who found his body after the crucifixion must have looked upon something like this … And how could they believe, looking at a corpse like that, that he would rise again?’”
Hans Holbein the Younger’s painting "The Body of the Dead Christ in the Tomb", 1522.
[https://mavcor.yale.edu/conversations/object-narratives/hans-holbein-younger-dead-christ-entombed]
"Love is soul work. Love can be met and joined with attraction and infatuation and all of that, but love will not fade when those things do. You can choose to close your heart to love, and run away, and avoid it for as long as you can in every way you can think of but if it was really, truly, the other-worldly, almost supernatural kind of love that we can only hope to be graced with at least once in this life experience, it will not leave you. You can love many people, but at the end of the day, the love you need to choose is the love that, even if you close your heart to, still moves you. The love you still write about. The love you can't face.Читать полностью…
The love you're still not okay with losing, that you're angry about; the love that uprooted your life and contorted your being. The love you ran away from because it showed you who you are without the guise of worth given from someone else. This is love because these are all signs that you are closing your heart and to be doing so, there has to be something going through you for you to be able to close off. Real love will be the love you realize that remains even after you close your heart to it, because it sustains itself. It drives you forward. It brings up all the unhealed parts of you that you have to reconcile."
__Brianna Wiest.
"The Space of Literature" written by Maurice Blanchot, 1955.
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In the land of my dreams
You love me so much more
I even hear the words that you never say
If they could only be real
Instead of just in my head.
Writing for the Japan Times, Iain Maloney notes that: "In many ways Confessions is the key text to understanding Mishima's later novels. In it, he explores the poles of his psyche, his homosexuality and his romantic/erotic attraction to warfare and combat. It is a scathing, unflinching examination of the darkness at the far corners of the human mind."Читать полностью…
Confessions of a Mask (Kamen no Kokuhaku) is the second novel by Yukio Mishima. Published in 1949.
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By Vicente Romero Redondo.
[https://vicenteromeroredondo.com/paintings/]
Farewell, (1892) - Alfred Guillou , musée des Beaux-Arts De Quimper.
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I miss myself. Seems like something is lost here. I am always searching for it desperately, touching the walls, wandering in empty corridors and passages. I need to keep my silence, but at the same time during the daylight l talk on and on and on .. like a curse. The curse of language. As soon as something is out there bounded with words, the thing is dead. It's simply like a fish out of her home; water. The outside kills everything. Kills my little pathetic words, ideas ..language when written or spoken, should be fragmented, minimal and give the sensation of walking in unconscious. As what Marguerite Duras does in her works. She is intuitively drowned in her unconscious without being truly drowned; being dead! She is connected to the unspoken language. To that vital vast non-verbal aspect of being human. And to put this unspoken thing into words? That's my fascination for her. That's where she miraculously emerges. She steps onto the scene of the play strolling slowly without any extra movement ready to pin you down on your chair as the spectator or maybe more of a sideliner.
I have this dream to be drowned in my own unconscious. Or maybe anyone else’s. This would be my glorious final regression to where l belong. This is the eternal tranquillity which l was thrown out with, from the very moment l was born; the triumph of evolution, yet the cosmic failure of self, my-self.
By Roberto Ferri.
[https://www.robertoferri.net/gallery/]