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tags: Literature
Is not the most erotic portion of the body where the garment gapes? The intermittence between skin flashing between two articles of clothing, between two edges; it is this flash itself which seduces or rather: the staging of an appearance-as-disappearance.
The pleasure of the text is not the pleasure of the corporeal striptease or of narrative suspense. In these cases, there is no tear, no edges: a gradual unveiling.
What I enjoy in a narrative is not directly its content or even its structure, but rather the abrasions I impose on the fine surface: I read on, I skip I look up I dip in again. Which has nothing to do with the laceration of text of bliss inflicts upon language itself, and not up the simple temporality of reading.
As institution, the author is dead: his civil status, his biographical person have disappeared; dispossessed, they no longer exercise over his work the formidable paternity whose account literary history, teaching and public opinion had the responsibility of establishing and renewing; but in the text, in a way, I desire the author: I need his figure (which is neither representation or his projection) as he needs mine (except to “prattle”).
Logosphere
There are those who want a text (an art, a painting) without a shadow, without the “dominant ideology”; but to want this is to want a text without fecundity, without productivity, a sterile text. The text needs its shadow: this shadow is a bit of subject: ghosts, pockets, traces, necessary clouds: subversion must produce its own chiaroscuro.
The language I speak within myself is not of my time; it is prey, by nature, to ideological suspicion; thus it is with this language that I must struggle. I write because I do not want the words I find: by subtraction. At the same time this next-to-the-last language is a language of my pleasure. This is my pleasure, but not my bliss for my bliss may come only with the absolutely new, for only the new disturbs (weakens) consciousness (easy? not at all: nine times out of ten the new is only the stereotype of novelty).
Thought
The language I speak within myself is not of my time;
This isn’t the intention but what I got locked into here was thinking of my thoughts, seemingly the most interior aspect of my agency, are not even my own. The tools I can process my subvocalizations, when not some unconscious deepthought are streams of letters. By continuing my compulsive act of reading and writing, I reinforce this.
Again for me to surface them, they must be packed into word-things generally. These word-things aren’t my own. I did not create them. I encountered them, like one does a Stranger. I made nothing to the word “sunset” or “sorrow” besides latching onto my experiences of them, and deeming them occasionally appropriate.
sentence is hierarchical: it implies subjections, subordinations internal reactions. Chomsky says that a sentence is potentially infinite (infinitely catalyzable) but practice always obliges a sentence to end.
Valery “One does not think words, one only thinks sentences.”
He said it because he was writer. A writer is not someone who expresses his thoughts, his passions, or his imagination in sentences but someone who thinks in sentences.