In a strange room you must empty yourself for sleep. And before you are emptied for sleep, what are you. And when you are emptied for sleep, you are not. And when you are filled with sleep, you never were.
– Faulkner (via here)
In a strange room you must empty yourself for sleep. And before you are emptied for sleep, what are you. And when you are emptied for sleep, you are not. And when you are filled with sleep, you never were.
– Faulkner (via here)
Posted in Writing
A simple smile, X tells me, an act of kindness, you know yourself what that can do to you, especially in this town. So why don’t you give it to me? What’s wrong with you? he says. Is it me? It’s me, isn’t it? Why don’t you answer? You don’t have it to give, do you? Only to others, but that’s a lie, isn’t it, if you can’t even give it to me? Your dead eyes give you away, he says. A million lifetimes… Who do we talk to about this? Do we even care? Let’s get a few bottles and have a quiet night in, he tells me, maybe a takeaway.
Why don’t you ever read anymore? X asks me. Look at how you spend your time, with those trivialities you worship. You’re afraid, aren’t you, he says, not just lazy but actually afraid to read. Because it pulls you under time, doesn’t it, under all your errands and distractions, under your chatting and your bad jokes, and makes you face yourself, and me, and our horrible predicament, our hatred for each other and our failure. Well, welcome to my world, he says, now get reading, you never finish anything, learn something. I need more than self-help clichés, I need more than your friends, I couldn’t give a shit about your achievements, I’m in prison, the rats are gnawing at my feet, they’re waiting for me to die, learn something, help me! he says. So many years, he says, it seems like a million lifetimes, the endings of a million lifetimes.
All that sort of thing could be put up with, it belonged to the ordinary continual petty annoyances of life, it was nothing compared with what K. was striving for, and he had not come here simply to lead an honoured and comfortable life.
– Kafka, The Castle (tr. W. and E. Muir)
Posted in Kafka
Your dead eyes, X tells me. Look alive! Give me something! How do you expect me to be saved if you give me nothing? Two can play at that game, you know… I suspect you have nothing to give, he says, just as I have nothing to give you. So who should we listen to? he asks. Who’ll save us?
You couldn’t sleep, what do you mean you couldn’t sleep? our uncle tells me. Bad dreams, what bad dreams? I don’t dream, he says, I don’t have time for dreaming. Don’t worry about all that, he says, just crack on. Go put some more soil on the barrow. This bit here needs more fresh soil, otherwise the grass will never grow. I’ll keep digging, I’m ahead of you already, he says.
Fragments speak to me of hope. They reach out to completion but never reach it.
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The world is various, abundant and incomplete. If it were ever to reach completion, that would be annihilation. The fragment represents life.
Posted in FragLit
If man is once again to come into the vicinity of Being [die Nahe des Seins], he must first learn to exist in namelessness [Namenlosen]. He must recognize equally the seduction of the public and the powerlessness of the private. Before he speaks, he must allow himself again to be spoken to by Being and risk the danger that in being spoken to he will have little or rarely anything to say.
– Heidegger
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Under every deep, another deep opens.
– Ralph Waldo Emerson
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Do not believe that the person who is trying to offer you solace lives his life effortlessly among the simple and quiet words that might occasionally comfort you. His life is filled with much hardship and sadness, and it remains far behind yours. But if it were otherwise, he could never have found these words.
– Rilke
(via here)
Recently, when I got out of the elevator at my usual hour, it occurred to me that my life, whose days more and more repeat themselves down to the smallest detail, resembles that punishment in which each pupil must according to his offence write down the same meaningless (in repetition, at least) sentence ten times, a hundred times or even oftener; except that in my case the punishment is given me with only this limitation: ‘as many times as you can stand it.’
– Kafka, Diaries
Posted in Kafka
The difficulties (which other people surely find incredible) I have in speaking to people arise from the fact that my thinking, or rather the content of my consciousness, is entirely nebulous, that I remain undisturbed by this, so far as it concerns only myself, and am even occasionally self-satisfied; yet conversation with people demands pointedness, solidity, and sustained coherence, qualities not to be found in me. No one will want to lie in clouds of mist with me, and even if someone did, I couldn’t expel the mist from my head; when two people come together it dissolves of itself and is nothing.
– Kafka, Diaries
Posted in Kafka