Louise Bourgeois, He Disappeared Into Complete Silence, 1947

Augustina von Nagel - The Thinker, 1997

incredibly fascinating to see liberals who have cheered on the destruction of the soviet union and consider the reintroduction of capitalism to eastern europe to be positive/an act of liberation suddenly being really confused and scratching their head as to how there could possibly be a resurgence of fascism across europe

biden removing cuba from the state sponsor of terrorism list NOW is so fucking stupid. trump last act as president put cuba on the terrorism list. biden last act as president take cuba off the list. cuban lives continue to be nothing more than western pawns. cuba has experienced crisis after crisis during the biden administration and he only moves to do this now because no part of him actually wants to see cuba free. it's been over 66 years and these old white men are still pissing themselves in fear of latin american leftism, their sick need for control leading them to arbitrarily point fingers and cry "terrorist." we all know who the real terrorists are.

“You are the void and the cinder Bird without head with wings beating the night The universe is made of your slight hope

The universe is your sick heart and mine Beating to skim death To the cemetery of hope

My pain is joy And the cinder is fire.” Georges Bataille

Takashi Kawashima

"On March 2nd, as you came again, "the middle" occurred, bringing what had been into what endures. Time gathered into the fourth dimension of intimacy, as if we had stepped directly out of eternity—and returned into it. But, closest one, you should know this: "intending and delicate"—nothing forgotten, with every contrary added to it whole—all your pain, scarcely measured, and all my absence, without denying it to myself, rang in a long ringing of the bell of the world in our hearts. It rang in the morning light, and for days afterward that moment of the distant hearing of the now dawned for us. You—Hannah—you Your Martin" Martin Heidegger to Hannah Arendt, Messkirch, May, 1950

who can ever dare a 'we' without trembling

who can ever dare a ‘we’ without trembling? who can ever sign a 'we'– in english, 'we subject’ in the nominative, or an 'us’, in the accusative or the dative? […] we met (each other), we spoke, wrote (to one-another), we loved (one another), we agreed (with each other) – or not. to sign a 'we’, an 'us’ may already seem impossible, far too weighty or light, always illegitimate amongst the living.

—Parallax 6(4) (2000): 28

[...]I suppose you want to see my rags’, she said. Gripping the table with both hands, I turned to face her. Still sitting, she lifted one leg high and wide above her head, and to open her gash still further, used the fingers of both hands to draw the folds of skin apart. Thus, Madame Edwarda’s ‘rags’ looked at me, hairy and pink, and as full of life as some revolting squid. I stammered softly: ‘Why are you doing that?’ ‘You can see,’ she said, ‘I am GOD’. ‘I’m going crazy.’ ‘Oh no you’re not, you’ve got to see: look!’ Her harsh voice sweetened, becoming almost childlike as she said with such weariness, with the infinite smile of abandon: ‘Darling, the fun I’ve had . . .’ Holding her provocative position, her leg still raised in the air, she spoke to me with an air of command: ‘Kiss me!’ ‘But . . . ,’ I protested, ‘in front of all these people?’ ‘Of course!’ I trembled. I stared at her, motionless, and she smiled back so sweetly that I trembled again. At last, staggering forward, I got down on my knees and pressed my lips to that living wound. Her naked thigh caressed my ear and I thought I heard the sound of a sea swell, the same sound you hear when you put your ear to a large conch shell. In the absurdity and confusion of the brothel (I felt I was choking, flushed and sweating with the heat) I remained strangely suspended, as if Madame Edwarda and I were losing ourselves on a night of wind, alone together at the edge of the ocean. [...] Madame Edwarda went ahead of me . . . rising into the clouds. The room’s noisy indifference to her happiness, to the measured gravity of her step, was both a royal consecration and a flowering festival: death itself was present at the feast in the guise of what is called, in the nakedness of the brothel, ‘the butcher’s cut’. . . Madame Edwarda, Georges Bataille *Madame Edwarda: a figure which, in Hegel’s words, ‘attains its truth only when it finds itself in absolute laceration’, when the life of the spirit ‘contemplates the negativity of death face to face and dwells with it’. _Illustrations for Madame Edwarda by René magritte, 1946

Doctor, that is kind of you

– Nothing is harmless anymore. The small joys, the expressions of life, which seemed to be exempt from the responsibility of thought, not only have a moment of defiant silliness, of the cold-hearted turning of a blind eye, but immediately enter the service of their most extreme opposite. Even the tree which blooms, lies, the moment that one perceives its bloom without the shadow of horror; even the innocent “How beautiful” becomes an excuse for the ignominy of existence, which is otherwise, and there is no longer any beauty or any consolation, except in the gaze which goes straight to the horror, withstands it, and in the undiminished consciousness of negativity, holds fast to the possibility of that which is better. •Minima Moralia: Reflections From Damaged Life, Theodor Adorno

The Courier-News, Bridgewater, Pennsylvania, January 19, 1933