Cantastoriedimorte - Cantastoriedimortie

Louise Bourgeois, He Disappeared into Complete Silence, 1947

incredibly fascinating to see liberals who have cheered on the destruction of the soviet union and consider the reintroduction of capitalism to eastern europe to be positive/an act of liberation suddenly being really confused and scratching their head as to how there could possibly be a resurgence of fascism across europe

Aquarium

“And I know it must die, for its hour is o'er; Folding its impotent hands at last, Hands too weary to pluck any more The flowers of the past!”                         

Maurice Maeterlinck

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I ought to have a special hell for my anger, a hell for my pride, - and a hell for sex; a whole symphony of hells!

I am weary, I die. This is the grave and I'm turning into worms, horror of horrors! Satan, you clown, you want to dissolve me with your charms. Well, I want it. I want it! Stab me with a pitchfork, sprinkle me with fire. Arthur Rimbaud’s Night in Hell from “A season in hell”

The Passions

Narrow paths my passions tread: Laughter rings there, sorrow cries; Sick and sad, with half-shut eyes, Thro' the leaves the woods have shed,         My sins like yellow mongrels slink; Uncouth hyenas, my hates complain, And on the pale and listless plain Couching low, love's lion's blink.

        Maurice Maeterlinck

'nina simone live at montreux' cd packaging, printed 2011.

… And I – weak, languid, obscene, digesting, tossing about dismal thoughts – I too was superfluous. Fortunately I didn’t feel this, above all I didn’t understand it, but I was uneasy because I was afraid of feeling it (even now I am afraid of that – I’m afraid that it might take me by the back of my head and lift me up like a ground-swell). I dreamed vaguely of killing myself, do destroy at least one of these superfluous existences. But my death itself would have been superfluous. Superfluous, my corpse, my blood on these pebbles, between these plants, in the depths of this charming park. And the decomposed flesh would have been superfluous in the earth which would have received it, and my bones, finally, cleaned, stripped, neat and clean as teeth, would also have been superfluous; i was superfluous for all time.

Nausea, Jean-Paul Sartre

O Lord, the stars of Your sky have set, the eyes of Your creation have closed to rest, and kings have locked their gates, Yet, Your gate is always open to those who ask.

— Imam al-Sajjad (ع)

“Why can’t we stay closed up inside ourselves? why do we chase after expression and form, trying to deliver ourselves of our precious contents or “meanings,” desperately attempting to organize what is after all a rebellious and chaotic process? wouldn’t it be more creative simply to surrender to out inner fluidity without any intention of objectifying it, intimately and voluptuously soaking in our inner turmoil and struggle? then we would feel with much richer intensity the whole inner growth of spiritual experience. All kinds of insights would blend and flourish in a fertile effervescence. A sensation of actuality and spiritual content would be born, like the rise of a wave or a musical phrase. To be full of one’s self, not in the sense of pride, but of enrichment, to be tormented by a sense of infinity, means to live so intensely that you feel you are about to die of life.” Emil M. Cioran from On the Heights of Despair Translated by Ilinca Zarifopol-Johnston