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From 9:30 onwards is pure glory for me...

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Prague (64)

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The Witch (2015) Directed by Robert Eggers

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MUÑOZ DEGRAIN, Antonio (1840-1924)

Nymphs bathing by 1924 Oil on canvas, 76.5 x 93.5 cm Museo Carmen Thyssen, Málaga Ed. Orig.

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If all consciousness is subject to essential laws in a manner similar to that in which spatial reality is subject to mathematical laws, then these essential laws will be of most fertile significance in investigating facts of the conscious life of human and brute animals.

Edmund Husserl, Pure Phenomenology (via philosophybits)

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One great part of every human existence is passed in a state which cannot be rendered sensible by the use of wideawake language, cutanddry grammar and goahead plot.

James Joyce - Finnegan`s Wake  (via bergmans-ghost)

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The earth is not a mere fragment of dead history, stratum upon stratum like the leaves of a book, to be studied by geologists and antiquaries chiefly, but living poetry like the leaves of a tree, which precede flowers and fruit—not a fossil earth, but a living earth; compared with whose great central life all animal and vegetable life is merely parasitic.

Henry David Thoreau, Walden

(via freelance-philosopher)

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Slavoj Žižek on Immanuel Kant

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The Woman with Red Mask, 1940, Rufino Tamayo

https://www.wikiart.org/en/rufino-tamayo/the-woman-with-red-mask-1940

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Georges Bataille, Guilty (tr. Bruce Boone)

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Schattenkünstler

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“For us, eating and being eaten belong to the terrible secret of love. We love only the person we can eat. The person we hate we ‘can’t swallow.’ That one makes us vomit. Even our friends are inedible. If we were asked to dig into our friend’s flesh we would be disgusted. The person we love we dream only of eating. That is, we slide down that razor’s edge of ambivalence. The story of torment itself is a very beautiful one. Because loving is wanting and being able to eat up and yet to stop at the boundary. And there, at the tiniest beat between springing and stopping, in rushes fear. The spring is already in mid-air. The heart stops. The heart takes off again. Everything in love is oriented towards this absorption. At the same time real love is a don’t-touch, yet still an almost-touching. Tact itself: a phantom touching. Eat me up, my love, or else I’m going to eat you up. Fear of eating, fear of the edible, fear on the part of the one of them who feels loved, desired, who wants to be loved, desired, who desires to be desired, who knows there is no greater proof of love than the other’s appetite, who is dying to be eaten up, who says or doesn’t say, but who signifies: I beg you, eat me up. Want me down to the marrow. And yet manage it so as to keep me alive. But I often turn about or compromise, because I know that you won’t eat me up, in the end, and I urge you: bite me. Sign my death with your teeth.”

— Helene Cixous, “The Love of the Wolf” (via fleurishes)

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To be grounded far from one’s language, to emancipate it or lose one’s hold on it, to let it make its away alone and unarmed. To leave speech. To be a poet is to know how to leave speech. To let it speak alone, which it can do only in its written form. To leave writing is to be there only in order to provide its passageway, to be the diaphanous element of its going forth: everything and nothing. For the work, the writer is at once everything and nothing.

Jacques Derrida, “Edmond Jabès and the Question of the Book,” Writing and Difference  (via 89rooms)