AN ANEMIA OF HUMAN NATURE

 HUMAN NATUREA

 

 

 

 

 

 

––The atoms that sleep in people, and which have never slept in me.

The continuous awakening from matter’s sleep…

Matter as the cradle of forgetting…

The life of the soul, the spirit which shows us our traces…

Matter leaves no traces, and therefore it is the cradle of forgetting.

All traces, all that is not matter in us, follows us…

But descending into matter, we love our traces…

Not spirit, but music is the antipode of matter…

Rummaging though the most distant past, music awakens us constantly from matter’s sleep…

But music like matter is eternal.

The formation of the worlds has spread the first harmonies in space.

Music expresses all that is chaotic in the cosmos: therefore there exists only one music of the beginning and one music of the end…

Absurd thought in music: a physics from which one proceeds from tears rather than atoms.

Imagine if we were to roll with the entire world in a crazy avalanche to conquer forever matter’s sleep, and like the atoms, let no one sleep. We should have lived when the earth breathed through volcanoes and when it was wrested out of the sun.

Everything is already in every moment: now the world is born, and now it dies; the rays of light and the dark; transfiguration and the crash, melancholy and horror. The world: we can make it absolute within ourselves.

––The fact that the will to power is the last card played in the game with life is proven by power’s supreme ability to tempt all those that have nothing to lose or for whom life had nothing to offer. Jesus: the weakest man—was also the strongest (because he hasn’t exhausted himself in hovering over twomillenniums). There is no spiritual strength other than in biological deficiency. The vital holes, in the ambitious and visionary souls, have turned and ravaged history. The individual goes ahead with history every time life leaves him behind. The Christians are right when they explain history through the fall. Adam’s sin is the first historical act, that is, the first act against human nature or besides human nature. In human nature, in the law of the human nature there is no history. History is a fall from life’s cradle, a jump from it; it is a treason, without which we would have remained the anonymous slaves of life. Freedom through history, that is, through the history of every unhappiness, the history of everyone.

We have become everyone since we have run away from life’s cradle. Life, which had one name, has taken many innumerable ones, in each individual, thus retreating anonymously among them. History began when the phenomenon of individuation took a nominal character. Since then individuals have stopped believing that they are the sons of life, thus estranging themselves from their Alma Mater.

––Who can save me from the idea that this world can also be made on other bases, and who can give me the illusion that we can build it on other bases? How many times could this world, then, be different? How many times should it not, indeed, be thus, different? Or could this world have been made up by uncountable hidden faces, which we can uncover? Then we would do nothing other than reform the world; but we want another one altogether. We want to begin our world, because the one created by God is about to end…

His world was neither appearance, nor illusion, but reality. It was one that was. And therefore it must die. He has to conclude to his own beginning.

––The last man, and also the most depraved, thinks he is superior to Socrates. Even in front of Napoleon’s grave you cannot hide your smile filled with scorn. For every man who dies, we feel more contempt than pity. It is as if people “compromise” themselves by dying. Don’t we sometimes consider other peoples’ deaths as a form of cowardice? I remember facing that skeleton and exclaiming: “you, moron!”

––If we were to begin our daily activities with a funereal march, what dimensions would our acts assume! A life that would unfold solemnly, and in which we would “officiate,” and in the last act…

––They love Rembrandt, those who suffer from the attraction to grand sunsets. For Rembrandt, light comes neither from the outside, nor from the logic of a tableau as such. The sun sets in every man and in every thing. The portrait reflects from the interior rays that don’t belong to it. Light goes down in man, and in this vanishing it dresses up the soul in shadows. For Rembrandt, the sun dies every day within each man, and the portrait seems torepresent the last flickers, the final stage of this trajectory. Light coming from the pale and disseminated rays of a decline. Here, the people come from the shadow, and the Rembrandtesque secret consists of nothing other than an act of waiting for darkness. A kind of darkness that wants to free itself from itself through light; the darkness which awaits the defeat of its own principle. For Rembrandt, everything tends towards old age. Rembrandt is the tiredness of the shadow and the tiredness of the sun, and beings are placed undecidedly between death and life. Having come from the shadow and raised under it, where would they return to? Towards what light do they aspire, when the sun offers them only its agony…

––Botticelli: the symbol of the world—a flower; becoming as grace; life’s auto-ecstasy; every gesture, a miracle; the veils that shroud matter; enthusiasm heavier than matter; Botticelli is there where things are not weighed anymore; aurora is universal finality; the rays of light dance in space; stones vibrate; the sound of distant voices approach swinging…

––The more blood thins out, the more it means that man approaches his eternity. The whole of eternity is a question of red cells…

––Time dominates over us every time our blood circulation, the carnal resistance, and the organic rhythms are the dominants of our existences! But when blood becomes an intangible fluid, the flesh, an immaterial shiver, the organic rhythm, an abstract cadence, we are as far away from time as we are from being.

The voice of the blood is the voice of time, of the things which begin, and those that end. Why does blood lose its voice in thinking? Is it not because thoughts suck the blood? This is how abstract passions are born.

Eternity? An anemia of human nature.

––About abstract passions or: diaphanous hands; pale hands that burn; transparent hands that falter;––

Angelic and suave face, under which is hidden the impulse for crime; atemporal expression, which covers future overturns and future crashes; lowered eyes, lost eyes, with the objective in everything, losing the objects.

Distancing, a modality of love; the vague as a form; non-life, an apotheosis.

Ideas flow in the blood (the definition of abstract passions). Ideas that possessthe blood—or when passions are born without an objective. Passions that are bound with nothing, and which don’t bind us with anything. That is to say, to die for that which is the furthest away from us. These distances, they are our only presence.

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