Was looking at the sky. Just felt like it: 🎹 Schubert: D. 664, Andante (full mvt this time) Hope you enjoy! 🤍

Reminded of Emil Cioran: “The ideal: to be able to repeat oneself like . . . Bach.”

“If you read my first book you’ll find everything there that I think today. But it’s a long journey, and you discover new forms, new ways of applying the nuclei of your thought to new situations.” — Hélène Cixous (interview in English, 2007)

Il faut bien aimer 🖤 — last night’s reading: Cixous’s second volume of seminars (where Freud and Derrida seem to be everywhere, as ever)

“Derrida once gave an interview entitled ‘Eating Well [Il faut bien manger]’: let the full ambiguity resonate. […] This instantly translates: one must love well [IL FAUT BIEN AIMER]; it is at once a necessity, an injunction, a constraint.” — Hélène Cixous, IL FAUT BIEN AIMER

“I doubt everything, even my doubt.” (Flaubert to Louise Colet, 1846)

A little morning Haydn 🥰 (Here’s a snippet from the 1st mvt. of Sonata in C, Hob. XVI:50) Hope you enjoy!

“To climb you, and having climbed you—when the light is no longer supported by words, when it totters and crashes down—climb you again. Another crest, another lode. Ever since my fears came of age, the mountain has needed me. Has needed my chasms, my bonds, my step.” — J. Dupin

“The torch, which lights the abyss, which seals it up, is itself an abyss.” — Jacques Dupin, from “Lichens” (tr. Paul Auster)

a first version (a detour) or, worse, an original text, engaging us thus in the process of the illusion of infinite deciphering.” (from The Step Not Beyond, tr. Lycette Nelson)

Maurice Blanchot: “To write is perhaps to not write in rewriting—to efface (in writing over) that which is not yet written and that rewriting not only covers over, but restores obliquely in covering it over, in making us think that there was something before, (1/2)

“The only truth is that which is known to no one and which remains untransmitted […], which is perhaps why we do recount so much or even everything, to make sure that nothing has ever really happened, not once it’s been told.” — Javier Marías, A Heart So White

“When it’s in a book I don’t think it’ll hurt any more . . . exist any more. It’ll be wiped out. That’s what I find, with this story I’ve had with you. That writing . . . one of the things writing does is wipe things out. Replace them.” (Marguerite Duras, Emily L.)

“All words are adult. Only the space in which they reverberate—infinitely empty, like a garden where, even after the children have disappeared, their joyful cries continue to be heard—leads them back towards the perpetual death in which they seem to keep being born.” — Blanchot

Poetry: dispersion that, as such, finds its form… Once the internal and external ties are broken, there arises in each word as though anew all words; not words…but the space…that they designate as the moving space of their appearance and disappearance. — Blanchot (tr. Hanson)

Jacques Dupin: “La nuit qui nous attend et qui nous comble, il faut encore décevoir son attente pour qu’elle soit la nuit.” (extrait de “Lichens”) “Et le paysage s’ordonne autour d’un mot lancé à la légère et qui reviendra chargé d’ombre.” (extrait de “Ce tison la distance”)

“And the landscape disposes itself around a word tossed out lightly that will come back laden with shadow.” — Jacques Dupin (from “Ce tison la distance,” as quoted in Blanchot, The Infinite Conversation)

“The night awaits us, fills us, again we must disappoint its waiting, in order that it become the night.” — Jacques Dupin, from “Lichens” (trans. Paul Auster)

“But vain to popularize profundities, and all truth is profound.” (Moby-Dick, Ch. 41) #MelvilleMonday 🐳

"Snow and fire, fire and snow burying the initial equation, shadowed and lost: such is the snow and its endless fall upon the eternity of recovered speech, of language reintroduced into the liveliness of the elements...

“The village lay under deep snow. There was no sign of the Castle hill, fog and darkness surrounded it… K. stood a long time on the wooden bridge that leads from the main road to the village, gazing upward into the seeming emptiness.” (Kafka, The Castle)