Dogmas stink

A work, the very idea of a work, seems to me to be an ancient thing. The same goes for controversy and admiration; everything that makes up, not the arts, but the commentary of culture. These seem to me to be salon concepts from another time.

I listen to Duras' voice for a few minutes and then turn off the radio. Even her, whose talent and thought I love, I don't want her way of doing things at this moment, of communicating meaning through the sensitive and impeccable thread of her voice. Too much of the France Culture style can also kill the desire for culture... and yet there might be nothing else to hear in the absolute. But sometimes it's painful... necessarily painful, the referential icons. And sometimes even in spite of them. All dogmas stink; fortunately not all people.

There is a circus in most of the human postures that I cannot stand today. So far from any reality of nature, inescapable and terrible. Everything that is said seems to me to be more vain than anything that should not be said.

Sometimes it is necessary to distance oneself from one's contemporaries so that one forgets their humanity behind what they do or have done. This is what I like about authors before communication and recorded testimonies. They exist all the more because you can never really imagine who they were. It's often better. Not always, not systematically, but often. It avoids the mannerism of an aesthetic that is added to a production that is all the more beautiful and mysterious because it no longer has a progenitor.