#barthes' neutral is about love I'll take no questions

[goliadkine]

The Book of Disquiet - echoes

Better to write than to dare live - even if living means merely to buy bananas in the sunlight, as long as the sun lasts and there are bananas for sale 

I love you. I love you, 

but I’m turning to my verses 

and my heart is closing 

like a fist. 

-

Perhaps he makes a choice. / What choice? / He chooses the memory of her. That’s why he turns. He doesn’t make the lover’s choice, but the poet’s. 

From so much self-revising, I’ve destroyed myself. From so much self-thinking I’m now my thought and not I. 

I wanted to explain myself to myself in an understandable way. 

I gave shape to my fears and made excuses. I varied my velocities, watched myselves sleep. Something’s not right about what I’m doing but I’m still doing it- living in the worst parts, ruining myself. 

The relationship between one soul and another, expressed through such uncertain and variable things as shared words and preferred gestures, are deceptively complex. The very act of meeting each other is a non meeting. Two people say I love you or mutually think it and feel it, and each mind has a different idea, a different life, perhaps even a different colour or fragrance, in the abstract sum of impression that constitutes the soul’s activity. 

A friend points out to me: "to say of someone that he's hand­some is to imprison him in his beauty"! I say: yes, it's true, but all the same: not too fast! let's not go too fast! It's beautiful, it's free, it's human. It might end up being necessary to let go {faire son deuil} of desire (that's what psychoanalysis tells us), but let's not do it right away: pleasure of desire, of the adjective: so that "truth" (if there is any) not be immediate: pleasure of the lure: the sculptor Sarrasine died from truth (Zambinella was nothing but a castrato), but he got pleasure from the lure (Zambinella was an adorable woman): without the lure, without the adjective, nothing would happen 

-

“I will never know how you see red and you will never know how I see it.

 But this separation of consciousness

 is recognized only after a failure of communication, and our first movement is

 to believe in an undivided being between us.…”

 As he read Geryon could feel something like tons of black magma boiling up

 from the deeper regions of him.

 He moved his eyes back to the beginning of the page and started again.

 “To deny the existence of red

 is to deny the existence of mystery. The soul which does so will one day go mad”

- 

Margin of silence, Kay sage, 1942 / Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet, tr. Richard Zenith / Frank o’hara, “Mayakovsky”, Meditations in an emergency / “Portrait of a Lady on Fire” dir. Céline Sciamma / I saw three cities, Kay sage, 1944 / Pessoa, id. / Richard Siken, “Birds hover the trampled field”, War of the Foxes / The fourteen daggers, Kay Sage, 1942 / Pessoa, id. / Roland Barthes, The Neutral, tr. Rosalind E. Krauss and Denis Hollier / Anne Carson, Autobiography of Red