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La vie est atroce ; nous savons cela. Mais précisément parce que j’attends peu de choses de la condition humaine, les périodes de bonheur, les progrès partiels, les efforts de recommencement, et de continuité me semblent autant de prodiges qui compensent presque l’immense masse des maux, des échecs, de l’incurie et de l’erreur.

“La vida es atroz; eso lo sabemos. Pero precisamente porque espero poco de la condición humana, los períodos de la felicidad, el progreso parcial, esfuerzos que comienzan y continuidad parecen muchas maravillas que componen casi la inmensa masa de males, fracasos, de negligencia y error “.

Mémoires d’Hadrien - Marguerite Yourcenar, p.315 ed. Folio. (via darksilenceinsuburbia)

(Source: viresqueacquiriteundo)

what was once before you – an exciting, mysterious future – is now behind you. lived; understood; disappointing. you realize you are not special. you have struggled into existence, and are now slipping silently out of it. this is everyone’s experience. every single one. the specifics hardly matter. everyone’s everyone. so you are adele, hazel, claire, olive. you are ellen. all her meager sadnesses are yours; all her loneliness; the gray, straw-like hair; her red raw hands. it’s yours. it is time for you to understand this.
as the people who adore you stop adoring you; as they die; as they move on; as you shed them; as you shed your beauty; your youth; as the world forgets you; as you recognize your transience; as you begin to lose your characteristics one by one; as you learn there is no-one watching you, and there never was, you think only about driving – not coming from any place; not arriving any place. just driving, counting off time. now you are here, at 7:43. now you are here, at 7:44. now you are…
 Synechdoche, New York, 2008 (via fuckyeahexistentialism)

(Source: heteroglossia)

Habla Laura

Un amor no correspondido pero visto desde la persona que lo rechaza. ¿Que es mas cruel? ¿No responder los mendigos del amor o seguir insistiendo ciego a la realidad afectiva del otro? Me encanta como lo termina.

Yo que sostuve la agitada trama
Del verso escrito al borde del abismo,
Siempre volví la espalda al cataclismo.
Yo soy la que no está. La que no te ama.

Yo que alumbré con pertinaz ausencia
Tu visión de poeta endemoniado
Respondí a cada agónico llamado
Con la misma estelar indiferencia.

Soy Hidra que venció, fiera salvaje
Que al héroe despedaza y atormenta
Pero recibe a cambio un beso tierno.
Te pregunto: ¿no es cruel el homenaje?
¿No esconde acaso la mayor afrenta?
Muchas puertas, mi amor, dan al infierno.

De  Alejandro Dolina “El libro del fantasma”
Jacques Lacan reminds us, that in sex, each individual is to a large extent on their own, if I can put it that way. Naturally, the other’s body has to be mediated, but at the end of the day, the pleasure will be always your pleasure. Sex separates, doesn’t unite. The fact you are naked and pressing against the other is an image, an imaginary representation. What is real is that pleasure takes you a long way away, very far from the other. What is real is narcis­sistic, what binds is imaginary. So there is no such thing as a sexual relationship, concludes Lacan. His proposition shocked people since at the time everybody was talking about nothing else but “sexual relationships”. If there is no sexual relationship in sexuality, love is what fills the absence of a sexual relationship.

Lacan doesn’t say that love is a disguise for sexual relationships; he says that sexual relationships don’t exist, that love is what comes to replace that non-relationship. That’s much more interesting. This idea leads him to say that in love the other tries to approach “the being of the other”. In love the individual goes beyond himself, beyond the narcissistic. In sex, you are really in a relationship with yourself via the mediation of the other. The other helps you to discover the reality of pleasure. In love, on the contrary the mediation of the other is enough in itself. Such is the nature of the amorous encounter: you go to take on the other, to make him or her exist with you, as he or she is. It is a much more profound conception of love than the entirely banal view that love is no more than an imaginary canvas painted over the reality of sex.
Alain Badiou, In Praise of Love (via ounu)

(Source: lysenkoist)

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