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The tragic beauty of history
Nothing matters to me.
You have to be there and that's it.
The living is either there or it is not; and that is all.
There, in front of my eyes and that's it.
Everything that is not there, is not, does not exist.
Those who are not there, in that 'there', are temporarily erased or dead.
Ambiguity of the good citizen.
How come the other one doesn't touch me every time?
Universality is probably not for everyone.
The image of past pain is more beautiful than the present permanence of violence, more easily poetic.
Time sails backwards, throws a theatrical tulle over the detailed vision of ancient crimes.
The tragic beauty of history is more convivial than the impending horror.
You'd have to visit what's left of the camps to find out.
One can secretly be ecstatic about the symbolic intensity of a photo of Auschwitz; one sees only filth and misery in Lampedusa or elsewhere.
Photo against photo. Field against field.
Élysée open to rest for those who have done their job well.
The Shoah is beginning to take on a new colour in the sunlight of today's dramas.
The imprint is never more than a memory.
We move into history and the textbooks illustrate the beautiful designs of a newly coloured humanity, all of it.
A seductive postcard, the living dead become as moving and poetic as the little horses in Lascaux.
We will stop fighting at the first blood. This is the duel of the heroic intellectuals. This is their conception of heroism. Not the kind they admire in the ancients, but the kind they practice on the small scale of discourse and discussion. Nice men. Nice men, not so nice because they speak from where it dies. Everything is subject to comment, I think.
Ah, what a beautiful, elegant dress with a heavy, damask train I feel like wearing when I put these words in my mouth!
Hate power hate! Too much sepulchral evidence is said not to voluptuously clothe myself in my exponential incoherence. What else is there?
Do I have style? No, I really don't think so; I hope not. So many others seek to drape themselves in a flamboyant form before disappearing.
I'll settle for little. The little I am happy with.
More importantly, my isolation has liquefied in my veins and its liquor drips into the exact centre of my clear mind.
It echoes on my radiant floor and I suddenly understand that "Why?
But maybe no one ever comes looking for me there because no one has the key. From my mind, not from the ground.
Because there is no key, because there is no entrance, no more than there is to an egg. Because there is no resonance under the so reduced vault of such an interior.
There is no other solution than to break it to expose its yolk.
But then I would die, and then, free as a broken egg, free as a cracked shell, as a cracked wall about to collapse, I would pour out alive as a liquid outside.
At the moment, I have my heart in my stomach and a darting sex in place of my tongue. Do I want to cum or do I need to eat? Nothing matters to me except my voracity. As a hermaphroditic sentimentalist, I will be self-sufficient.
I will survive even when others are dying, the little people of their decaying families, clumped together in clusters, tied to their crotches.
How they will have grown old when, not dead, I will still suck the fruit of their offspring.
When I get to the yolk my egg will be happy, dark and hollow, to be an empty shell. I envy it.
I eat up my time and the distress of others in the meantime.
It is exhilarating to live on the doorstep of other people's misfortunes.
The pleasure of being filled, nothing matters to me but to be fed.
As long as wheat grows on land ploughed with words, copiously watered with blood,
I fell asleep happy.
