A being thirsty for ruining our nature would uproot all the trees in spring, it would eat up all the buds, it would poison the springs to kill all the living beings in them, it would stop up all the wells to hear the hoarse voices of the birds, it would cover all the flowers so that it would see them dry and fade, and bent sadly over the ground. It would kick the pregnant women in their bellies to kill the beginning of life, the fruit, all that is fruit, and the virgins’ smiles, it would freeze them into a grimace.
To the lovers, in their sexual spasm, it would throw a cadaver, and to the newborns, even before they opened their eyes, it would fix black glasses into their orbs. On a black board the size of the world, it would leap towards the sun to stop its rays, make it laugh into an eternal night, without stars, a sun in mourning, forever dressed up in black. And this being passes ironically by humanitywhich waits in agony for the return of sunrays, and it smiles coldly to prayers raised towards the beclouded sky.
––Evil is hatred against all that is fruit.
––History must mean for you nothing other than the history of humanity within you. If everything that has been big so far, and everything that will be big in the future is not in you either memory or fruit, then you lose history and you are nothing. What man is he who will not remake and anticipate history on his own? Or better put: why is he not a man, the one who will not remake and anticipate history on his own?
Thus should you live, to be indifferent towards the forms in which the world dresses up indifferent towards epochs, styles and historical turns. Live as if before you there was nothing and as if nothing will follow you. You have to be disgusted at the idea of being a link in a chain, or perfecting or destroying an inheritance. There are no forerunners, nor followers of absolute thoughts. Only we die beneath them.
––Why do we not want to grant saints the privilege of madness? Is it because their madness ends in light, instead of darkness?
––All the concessions we make to Eros are holes in our desire for the absolute.
––Nostalgia, more than anything, gives us the shudder of our own imperfection. This is why with Chopin we feel so little like gods.
––The first and last chapter of an anthropodicy: about tears.
––Only hatred strengthens life, and destructive hatred maintains constructive life. In it we feel strong, able to kick up everything; in it all of our limbs burn; hatred calls us to action, it encourages us to make a gesture and act. This is not the interested hatred, provoked by mean causes and oriented towards an immediate act of revenge, but the grand passionate hatred, under which everything trembles.
Hatred is the main spring of prophecy; hatred makes every prophet talk passionately about love. Prophecy is a hatred that is both destructive and creative. The Jews would have perished a long time ago if they hadn’t the divine gift of hatred. To the chosen people God ensured eternity through hatred. To us, the Christians, God gave a transitory existence through the curse of love. Jesus came for the Jews, not for us. Their God sent us the great seducer. How inspired were the Jews when they refused the Messiah.
––Thought that doesn’t express the struggle of an existence is pure theory. To think without a destiny, this is the fate of the theoretical man. All those that don’t want to change themselves and the world, those that do no remakeeverything and sense what will come theorize. They amount to zero, all those thoughts that don’t grow on a soul and a body, and so do all pure ideas; it is futile, the knowledge that comes for free. Let steam come out of thought; sparks from ideas; from knowledge fire. Let other dimensions give things the fever of this thought.
Let this thinking proceed from a will to reform the world, from the passion to overturn all orders, visible and invisible. Let this strong thinking bust the natural laws, give the cosmic basis another depth, and let the columns of the world gain another height through it. Let the world lean on us; let our resistance mean more than it meant for Atlas. Let our thoughts be the shoulders on which the endless worlds would lean. Earthquakes will create endless unease, and the flames will carry like halos the endless worlds. If everything that is in time and space did not contain our dimensions, why would we then think about space and time? If everything that lives and dies did not live and die within ourselves, why would we then think about life and death?
––Those days in spring, when matter dissolves in the sunrays and the soul gets lost in remembrance… That’s when all the dreams we’ve had so far will be reborn in ourselves, all the dreams of our nights, all the absurd and the imaginary stuff, woven in our unconscious by our fear, our voluptuousness, and our hidden pain. I thought that the dreams had died in us with every day and every night that passed. But the voluptuous decomposition of our soul, under the vast spring sky, is the call of remembrance. The more the soul is fragmented, the more it approaches the zone of forgetfulness.
Towards everything that we forgot, this is the pilgrimage towards our inner being the eternal presence of spring invites us to undertake. The shattering of our soul only shows us what we have been. Why can’t we always awaken our past? We sleep within ourselves, and the ego is a shroud that covers our sleep.
––In that cathedral, in which you were alone, and where you entered to forget the world and yourself, you did it to feel the lack of motion and to forget waiting, to feel how you were solemnly born in the colonnades and in the arches, to feel how you were disseminated in the purple shrouding, the majestically curbed and undulating lines of the temple, whose vaults you measured, and in whose transcendental geometry you lost yourself. Your soul has become a column, an arch, and a vault. Above the world and in its forms your forms have been intertwined, and this non-movement of your nature has become a block of stone. And in your bending, without emotion, you have looked down on earth. What was your soul, if not the stone that does not rest on the ground? Down you were in your heights, weak in your toughness, heavy in your flight, stone on its way to heaven…
But suddenly, the miracle of the sound of the organ, a miracle in the cathedral in which you thought you were alone. How the arches moved, the colonnades and vaults, and in vibration did your matter dilate itself, and the cathedral grew bigger in the world’s dimensions. In the sound of the organ, where you maystill look for boundaries, what music comes from beyond the margins, from beyond the margins of the world and the soul?
… And then, the heavens leaned on your soul.