Feb. 14, 2013 @ 12:32 PM _

Simone de Beauvoir et Jean Paul Sartre

+ High-res

Simone de Beauvoir et Jean Paul Sartre

Love, Cannibalism (IV): True Hallucinations / Alucinaciones reales @Terence McKenna (1993)

Feb. 14, 2013 @ 12:30 PM _

(…) Then we made love. Or rather we had an experience that vaguely related to making love but was a thing unto itself. We were both howling and singing in the glossolalia of DMT, rolling over the ground with everything awash in crawling, geometric hallucinations. She was transformed; words exist to describe what she became— pure anima, Kali, Leucothea, something erotic but not human, something addressed to the species and not to the individual, glittering with the possibility of cannibalism, madness, space, and extinction. She seemed on the edge of devouring me.

Reality was shattered. This kind of fucking occurs at the very limit of what is possible. Everything had been transformed into orgasm and visible, chattering oceans of elf language. Then I saw that where our bodies were glued together there was flowing, out of her, over me, over the floor of the roof, flowing everywhere, some sort of obsidian liquid, something dark and glittering, with color and lights within it. After the DMT flash, after the seizures of orgasms, after all that, this new thing shocked me to the core. What was this fluid and what was going on? I looked at it. I looked right into it, and it was the surface of my own mind reflected in front of me. Was it translin-guistic matter, the living opalescent excrescence of the alchemical abyss of hyperspace, something generated by the sex act performed under such crazy conditions?

(…) I slipped away with Ev and the butterfly net for a relaxed stroll down the trail and deeper into the jungle.
The trail was of washed, white sand, inches deep in places and soft and inviting. We had walked hardly a quarter of a mile when lust overtook our interest in lepidoptera. Adding to our thrill was the risk of discovery by Witoto trail users. We tossed caution to the winds and were soon lost in each other. Pleasant it was in that verdant setting to part and defile the shaggy, slippery riches of Ev’s sex. I thought of it as “Doing it for Vladimir.” Verdant lust and butterflies were always entwined in Nabokov’s enviable mind.


Interludio en Katmandu
(…) Luego hicimos el amor. O mejor dicho, tuvimos una experiencia que se asemejaba vagamente a hacer el amor pero que era algo en sí mismo. Los dos aullábamos y cantábamos en la glosolalia de la DMT, rodando por el suelo con todo inundado de alucinaciones geométricas. Ella se había transformado; hay palabras para describir en lo que se había convertido: puro ánimo, Kali, Leucothea, algo erótico pero no humano, algo de la especie pero no del individuo, irradiando con la posibilidad del canibalismo, locura, espacio y extinción. Parecía a punto de devorarme.

La realidad se hizo añicos. Esta manera de follar ocurre en el mismo límite de lo posible. Todo se había transformado en orgasmo y océanos parlantes y visibles de lenguaje élfico. Luego vi que allí donde nuestros cuerpos se tocaban había un fluir, de ella a mí, por encima del tejado, fluyendo por todas partes, era una especie de líquido obsidiano, algo oscuro y brillante, con color y luces dentro. Después del viaje de DMT, después de los ataques de orgasmos, después de todo eso, esta nueva cosa me dejó absolutamente conmocionado. ¿Qué era este líquido y qué estaba pasando? Lo miré. Lo miré fijamente y era la superficie de mi propia mente reflejada delante de mí. ¿Era materia translingüística, la viva excrecencia opalescente del abismo alquímico del hiperespacio, algo generado por el acto sexual realizado bajo tan alocadas condiciones? (…)

Mirando atrás
(…) Me escabullí con Ev y la red de mariposas para dar un paseo tranquilo por el camino hasta la jungla.

El camino era de arena blanca, con varios centímetros de profundidad en algunas partes, suave y sugerente. Caminamos cerca de medio kilómetro hasta que la lujuria invadió nuestros intereses en lepidopterolandia. Añadido a la emoción, estaba el riesgo de ser descubiertos por los huitoto que caminaban por el sendero. Asumimos los riesgos y enseguida nos sumergimos el uno en el otro. Qué placer fue profanar los peludos y escurridizos tesoros de Ev rodeado de aquel verdor. Pensé que estaba “haciéndolo por Vladimir”. Lujuria vegetal y mariposas siempre estaban emparejadas en la envidiable mente de Nabokov.

True Hallucinations / Alucinaciones reales
Terence McKenna, 1993 

Love, Cannibalism (III): The Book of Laughter and Forgetting @Milan Kundera - Prose (1979)

Feb. 14, 2013 @ 12:19 PM _

"May all your wishes come true!" said Hugo, and emptied his glass.
Tamina too downed her whisky in one gulp, and put her glass on the coffee table. She was about to sit down again, when Hugo suddenly embraced her. She did not defend herself, merely averted her head. Her mouth was twisted and her brow furrowed. He had taken her in his arms without knowing how it happened. He was frightened initially by his own gesture, and if Tamina had pushed him away, he would have retreated timidly and virtually apologized. But Tamina did not push him away, and her grimace and averted head aroused him enormously. None of the few women he had known up to now had ever responded so eloquently to his caresses. If they decided to make love with him, they would undress very placidly, with a kind of indifference, and then wait to see what he was going to do with their bodies. Tamina’s grimacing gave their embrace a depth he had never dreamed of. He gripped her with frenzy and tried to tear off her clothes.

But why did Tamina not defend herself? For three years now she had fearfully been imagining such a moment. For three years now she had been living under the hypnotic stare of such a moment. And now it had arrived, just as she had imagined it. That is why she did not defend herself. She accepted it as one accepts the inescapable.
All she could do was avert her head. But that was no use. Her husband’s image was before her, and as she swivelled her face about the room his image followed accordingly.
It was a large portrait of a grotesquely large husband, larger than life, yes, just what she had imagined for three years.
And then she was entirely naked, and Hugo, aroused by what he took to be her arousal, was amazed to discover that Tamina was dry.

 (…) Nice Hugo had already been moving fiercely on her for some time when she became aware that he was oddly raised on his forearms and thrashing his hips around in all directions. She realized he was dissatisfied with her responses, finding her insufficiently aroused, and therefore trying to penetrate her from various angles and find somewhere in her depths the mysterious sensitivity that was hiding itself from him.
Not wanting to see his labored efforts, she moved her head away. She tried to control her thoughts and bring them back to her notebooks.

(…) Hugo withdrew from her and tried to turn her body over. She realized he wanted her on all fours. At that instant she recalled that Hugo was younger than she, and she was ashamed. But she made an effort to stifle all her feelings and obey him with total indifference. Then she felt the hard blows of his body on her rump. She realized he was trying to dazzle her with his strength and endurance, he was joined in a decisive battle, he was taking a test to prove he could conquer and be worthy of her.
She did not know that Hugo could not see her. The fleeting sight of Tamina’s rump (of the open eye of that mature and beautiful rump, of the eye that stared at him pitilessly) had so aroused him that he closed his eyes, slowed his tempo, and breathed deeply. Now he too tried hard to think of something else (it was the only thing they had in common), so as to be able to go on making love to her.
And during all this, Tamina saw her husband’s gigantic face in front of her on the white surface of Hugo’s wardrobe. (…) Hugo’s heavy breathing tore her away from her memories. She opened her eyes and saw her husbands face on the white wardrobe. Suddenly Hugo too opened his eyes. He caught sight of the eye of Tamina’s rump, and pleasure ran through him like lightning.

(…) Hugo’s unexpected sexual success brought him an equally unexpected disappointment. He could now make love to her whenever he wanted (she could hardly deny him what she had once granted), but he felt he had succeeded neither in captivating nor in dazzling her. How, oh how, could a naked body under his own body be so indifferent, so out of reach, so distant and foreign? Had he not wanted her to be part of his inner world, that imposing universe shaped by his blood and thoughts?
Sitting across from her in a restaurant, he says: “I want to write a book, Tamina, a book about love, you know, about you and me, about the two of us, our most intimate diary, the diary of our two bodies, you know, I want to sweep away all the taboos and tell everything, tell everything about me, about what I am and what I think, and it’ll be a political book too, a political book about love and a book of love about politics…”

Lost Letters
The Book of Laughter and Forgetting
Milan Kundera, 1979 

Love, Cannibalism (II): Jewels Flashing In The Night Of Time @Justin Taylor - Prose (2010)

Feb. 14, 2013 @ 12:07 PM _

(…) One time:
I’m reading Story at the sandwich shop on my break and sort of watching Brendan in the background. I’m underlining something (these orgasms were as different from normal climaxes as, say, the mirth of savage Africans from that of Occidentals) but then it gets busy and I’m back on the clock, so I grab a packet of sugar from a little dish of them and stick it in the book for a bookmark, and then later, I’m reading to Andrea (It is not astonishing that the bleakest and most leprous aspects of a dream are merely an urging) and I get this idea about if we could be sweet for a change so I tell her I’m going to sugar her cunt down and lick it clean. I pour out the contents of the packet and lean in. For a moment I’m consumed by the genius conflict of her salts with the sweetness, but then a foul taste takes over and I gag badly. I choke. She props herself up on an elbow, nipples wilting, and reads the torn empty packet: “You asshole,” she says. “The pink ones aren’t sugar they’re Sweet’N Low.”

Jewels Flashing In The Night Of Time
Everything Here Is The Best Thing Ever
Justin Taylor, 2010 

Love, Cannibalism (I): Invisible @Paul Auster - Prose (2009)

Feb. 14, 2013 @ 12:02 PM _

It was the first chance you ever had to tell Gwyn how much you loved her, to tell her how beautiful you thought she was, to push your tongue inside her mouth and kiss her in the way you had dreamed of doing for months. You were trembling when you took off your clothes, trembling from head to toe when you crawled into the bed and felt her arms tighten around you. It was dark in the room, but you could dimly make out the gleam in your sister’s eyes, the contours of her face, the outline of her body, and when you crawled under the covers and felt the nakedness of that body, the bare skin of your fifteen-year-old sister pressing against the bare skin of your own body, you shuddered, feeling almost breathless from the onrush of sensations coursing through you. You lay in each other’s arms for several moments, legs entwined, cheeks touching, too awed to do anything but cling to each other and hope you wouldn’t burst apart from sheer terror. Eventually, Gwyn began to run her hands along your back, and then she brought her mouth toward your face and kissed you, kissed you hard, with an aggression you had not been expecting, and as her tongue shot into your mouth, you understood that there was no better thing in the world than to be kissed in the way she was kissing you, that this was without argument the single most important justification for being alive. You went on kissing for a long spell, the two of you purring and pawing at each other as your tongues flailed and saliva slid down from your lips. At last, you screwed up your courage and placed your palms on her breasts, her small, still not fully grown breasts, and for the first time in your life you said to yourself: I am touching a girl’s naked breasts. After you had run your hands over them for a while, you began to kiss the places you had touched, to flick your tongue around the nipples, to suck the nipples, and you were surprised when they grew firmer and more erect, as firm and erect as your penis had been since the moment you climbed on top of your naked sister. It was too much for you to handle, this initiation into the glories of female anatomy pushed you beyond your limits, and without any prompting from Gwyn you suddenly had your first ejaculation of the night, a ferocious spasm that wound up all over her stomach. Mercifully, whatever embarrassment you felt was short-lived, for even as the juices were pouring out of you, Gwyn had begun to laugh, and by way of toasting your accomplishment, she merrily rubbed her hand across her belly.

It went for hours. You were both so young and inexperienced, both so charged up and indefatigable, both so crazy in your hunger for each other, and because you had promised that this would be the only time, neither one of you wanted it to end. So you kept at it. With the strength and stamina of your fourteen years, you quickly rebounded from your accidental discharge, and as your sister gently put her hand around your rejuvenated penis (sublime transport, inexpressible joy), you forged on with your anatomy lesson by roaming your hands and mouth over other areas of her body. You discovered the delicious, down-soft regions of nape and inner tight, the indelible satisfactions of back hollow and buttocks, the almost unbearable delight of the licked ear. Tactile bliss, but also the smell of the perfume Gwyn had put on for the occasion, the ever more sweaty slickness of your two bodies, and the little symphony of sounds you both mad throughout the night, singly and together: the moans and whimpers, the sighs and yelps, and then, when Gwyn came for the first time (rubbing her clitoris with the middle finger of her left hand), the sound of air surging in and out of her nostrils, the accelerating speed of those breaths, the triumphant gasp at the end. The first time, followed by to other times, perhaps even a third. In your own case, beyond early solo bungle, there was the hand of your sister wrapped around your penis, the hand moving up and down, her mouth around your once-again hard penis, the intermingling of one person with another, conjoined spirits. Then your sister fell back onto the bed, opened her legs, and told you to touch her. Not there, she said, here, and she took your hand and guided you to the place where she wanted you to be, the place where you had never been, and you, who had known nothing before that night, slowly began your education as a human being.

Paul Auster, 2009 

The Book of Laughter and Forgetting / El libro de la risa y el olvido @Milan Kundera - Prose / Prosa (1979)

Feb. 13, 2013 @ 5:58 PM _


And the girl started laughing and stamping her feet harder so that she rose a few centimetres above the pavement, pulling the others up after her, and a moment later not one of them was touching the ground, they were all taking two steps in place and one step forward without touching the ground, yes, they were soaring over Wenceslaus Square, their dancing ring resembled a great wreath flying off, and I ran on the ground below and looked up to see them, as they soared farther and farther away, raising the left leg to one side and then the right to the other, and there below them was Prague with its cafes full of poets and its prisons full of betrayers of the people, and from the crematorium where they were incinerating a Socialist deputy and a surrealist writer the smoke ascended to the heavens like a good omen, and I heard Eluard’s metallic voice:
"Love is at work it is tireless."
And I ran after that voice through the streets so as not to lose sight of the splendid wreath of bodies gliding over the city, and I realized with anguish in my heart that they were flying like birds and I was falling like a stone, that they had wings and I would never have any.


What Is Litost?
Litost is an untranslatable Czech word. Its first syllable, which is long and stressed, sounds like the wail of an abandoned dog. As for the meaning of this word, I have looked in vain in other languages for an equivalent, though I find it difficult to imagine how anyone can understand the human soul without it.

(…)What then is litost?
Litost is a state of torment created by the sudden sight of one’s own misery. One of the customary remedies for misery is love. Because someone loved absolutely cannot be miserable. All his faults are redeemed by love’s magical gaze, (…).



¿Qué es la lítost?
Lítost es una palabra checa intraducible a otros idiomas. Representa un sentimiento tan inmenso como un acordeón extendido, un sentimiento que es síntesis de muchos otros sentimientos: la tristeza, la compasión, los reproches y la nostalgia. La primera sílaba de esta palabra, si se pronuncia alargada por el acento, suena como la queja de un perro abandonado.
Pero en ciertas ocasiones lítost tiene por el contrario un significado muy estrecho, particular, estricto y preciso como el filo de un cuchillo. Busco para él, también en vano, un símil en otras lenguas, aunque no soy capaz de imaginarme cómo puede alguien sin él comprender el alma humana.

(…) ¿Qué es entonces la lítost?
La lítost es un estado de padecimiento producido por la visión de la propia miseria puesta repentinamente en evidencia.
Uno de los remedios usuales contra la propia miseria es el amor. Porque aquel que es amado de un modo absoluto no puede ser miserable. Todos sus efectos son redimidos por la mirada mágica del amor (…).


El hombre sabe que no puede abarcar al universo con su sol y sus estrellas. Lo que le parece mucho más insoportable es estar condenado a dejar pasar de largo también al otro infinito, al cercano, al que está al alcance de la mano.

The Book of Laughter and Forgetting / El libro de la risa y el olvido
Milan Kundera, 1979 

Ululation / Aullido @Lacfadio Hearn - Prose / Prosa (1899)

Feb. 13, 2013 @ 5:27 PM _

Beautiful to the poet’s vision our world may seem,—with its loves, its hopes, its memories, its aspirations; but there is nothing beautiful in the fact that life is fed by continual murder,—that the tenderest affection, the noblest enthusiasm, the purest idealism, must be nourished by the eating of flesh and the drinking of blood. All life, to sustain itself, must devour life. You may imagine yourself divine if you please,—but you have to obey that law. Be, if you will, a vegetarian: none the less you must eat forms that have feeling and desire. Sterilize your food; and digestion stops. You cannot even drink without swallowing life. Loathe the name as we may, we are cannibals;—all being essentially is One; and whether we eat the flesh of a plant, a fish, a reptile, a bird, a mammal, or a man, the ultimate fact is the same. And for all life the end is the same: every creature, whether buried or burnt, is devoured,—and not only once or twice,—nor a hundred, nor a thousand, nor myriad times! Consider the ground upon which we move, the soil out of which we came;—think of the vanished billions that have risen from it and crumbled back into its latency to feed what becomes our food! Perpetually we eat the dust of our race,—the substance of our ancient selves.

But even so-called inanimate matter is self-devouring. Substance preys upon substance. As in the droplet monad swallows monad, so in the vast of Space do spheres consume each other. Stars give being to worlds and devour them; planets assimilate their own moons. All is a ravening that never ends but to recommence. And unto whomsoever thinks about these matters, the story of a divine universe, made and ruled by paternal love, sounds less persuasive than the Polynesian tale that the souls of the dead are devoured by the gods.

Monstrous the law seems, because we have developed ideas and sentiments which are opposed to this demoniac Nature,—much as voluntary movement is opposed to the blind power of gravitation. But the possession of such ideas and sentiments does but aggravate the atrocity of our situation, without lessening in the least the gloom of the final problem.


Nuestro mundo puede parecer hermoso para los ojos de un poeta, con sus amores, sus esperanzas, sus recuerdos, sus aspiraciones; pero nada hay de hermoso en el hecho de que la vida se alimente de un asesinato continuo, de que el afecto más tierno, el entusiasmo más noble, el idealismo más puro se nutren de carne y sangre. Toda vida, para continuar existiendo, debe devorar vida. Puedes creerte divino, si así lo deseas, pero debes obedecer a la ley. Sé, si es tu voluntad, vegetariano: aún así comerás formas que tienen sentimientos y deseos. Esteriliza tu comida; incluso deja de comer. No importa porque no puedes ni beber sin devorar vida. Por despreciable que suene la palabra, somos caníbales. Todo ser es esencialmente Uno, y ya comamos un vegetal, un pescado, un reptil, un ave, un mamífero o un hombre el acto es básicamente el mismo. Toda vida comparte un fin similar: ¡cada criatura, ya sea enterrada o incinerada, es devorada no solo una vez ni dos, sino cientos, miles, infinitas veces! Observa la tierra por la que nos movemos, la tierra de la que procedemos; piensa en los billones de seres ya desvanecidos que de ella han nacido y a ella han vuelto para alimentar lo que hoy comemos. Nos nutrimos perpetuamente con el polvo de nuestra especie, la sustancia de nuestros yos ancestrales.

Pero incluso la llamada materia inanimada se devora a sí misma. La sustancia acosa a la sustancia. Al igual que, en una gotita, la mónada se traga a la mónada, así en el vasto Espacio las esferas se consumen unas a otras. Las estrellas dan vida a mundos y después los devoran; los planetas asimilan sus propias lunas. Es todo un delirio que nunca termina, sino que vuelve a empezar. Para cualquiera que reflexione a cerca de estas cuestiones, la idea de un universo divino, creado y regido por el amor paternal, resulta menos persuasiva que el cuento polinesio en que las almas de los muertos son devoradas por los dioses.

La ley parece monstruosa pues hemos desarrollado ideas y sentimientos opuestos a esta Naturaleza demoníaca, al igual que el movimiento voluntario se opone a la fuerza inexorable de la gravedad. Pero semejantes ideas y sentimientos no hacen más que agravar nuestra situación, sin aliviar lo más mínimo el pesimismo del problema final.

Ululation / Aullido
In Ghostly Japan / El Japón fantasmal
Lafcadio Hearn, 1899 

Emily L. @Marguerite Duras - Prose (1987)

Feb. 10, 2013 @ 7:37 PM _

A penser ce qu’avait été ma vie il me venait un engourdissement de tout le corps, une tristesse, et je croyais que je m’ennuyais auprès de vous. Je savais que vous étiez inquiet quand je me taisais trop longtemps et je faisais un effort pour revenir à vous. Vous, vous ne faisiez jamais rien pour provoquer ce retour vers nous.
Nous ne pouvions pa mentir en rien sur ce sentiment qui nous avait unis et nous unissait encore sans doute, mais dont nous ne parlions plus jamais. Nous ne savions pas de quoi il était fait maintenant, de quelle sorte il était. Nous ne voulions pas le savoir.


L’immensité de l’amour apparaît très fort lorsqu’ils s’abandonnent au silence d’une colère contenue ou à l’hébétude de l’ivresse. Ce soir il y a entre eux une difficulté évidente qu’on ne peut pas connaître, mettre au clair. Ils se regardent, un peu fâchés, pleins de douleur.
Puis ils détournent les yeux vers le sol, vers le néant, le passage des gens sur la place, les arrivées et les départs du bac rouge.
Ils se regardent de nouveau dans un amour naissant.

Vous regardez le fleuve. Le couchant est entré dans la salle du café. Il est dans vos yeux rieurs. Vous dites :
- Ils sont des voyageurs des plus longues distances de la terre. Ils habitent le monde dans son voyage le plus longe.


Ce devait être après la perdre de ce poème qu’elle avait trouvé le voyage sur la mer, qu’elle avait décidé de perdre sa vie sur la mer, de ne rien faire d’autres des poèmes et de l’amour que les perdre sur la mer.


Elle, ce qu’elle préférait, c’était somnoler sur les ponts.
Il reste les yeux baissés longtemps, puis tout à coup il la regarde longuement comme on le ferait d’un paysage bouleversant et insaisissable, celui du vide de la mer ou celui du vide d’un ciel.


Je vous le dis:
- Je vous aimais d’un amour effrayant.
La méfiance revient dans vos yeux. Votre regard fuit au-delà des falaises. Vous dites:
- C’est aussi faux de dire ça que de dire que je vous aimes pas.
Je vous regarde. J’essaie de vous voir. Je ne parviens pas à vous regarder.

Emily L.
Marguerite Duras, 1987 

Jan. 30, 2013 @ 3:07 PM _

“Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
and I eat men like air.”

— Sylvia Plath, Ariel: The Restored Edition (via fuckyeah-literature)

Veteranos del pánico @Fabián Casas - Prosa (2000)

Jan. 28, 2013 @ 4:36 PM _

Tenía un pensamiento recurrente: “Un día me voy a morir, mis viejos van a morir, mi hermano se va a morir, y nunca, pero nunca más vamos a volver a estar vivos”. Había descubierto la pólvora. Y ese descubrimiento me ponía la piel de gallina, me hacía sudar las manos y terminar todo transpirado prendiendo la luz de mi pieza.

(…) Muchos años después caí en una depresión y me recetaron pastillas para dormir. Y lo hacía como un tronco. Una vez dormí dos días seguidos. Me desperté meado y cagado. Como dormía, no escribía. Pasé un rato muy largo sin poner una sola línea. Mi rutina se había vuelto muy elemental. De la cama al estudio hasta que cayera la tarde e inmediatamente a llorar de forma desconsolada. ¡Qué propaganda de preservativos! Traé un hijo al mundo y se va a convertir en esto. Sentía que alguien caminaba por mi pecho, que alguien, durante la noche, se tomaba el agua que dejaba sobre la mesita de luz. Yo era el astronauta de una nave hecha con papel de calcar. Y tenía vértigo. Sólo gracias a un cóctel de pastillas lograba bañarme, vestirme y salir a trabajar. No se lo deseo a nadie.

Voy a volver a descubrir la pólvora: no me gusta la vida que llevamos. No me gusta el mundo en el que vivimos. La Edad Media es Disneyworld comparada con nosotros. Las cosas están pasando de castaño oscuro. Estamos bajo una guerra abstracta, fría. Es como el efecto de esas bombas que pueden destruir toda la vida de una ciudad sin tocar un solo edificio, dejando la vajilla intacta y el café caliente. Uno puede ver desde el cielo -o desde lejos- la ciudad. Pero no hay vida. Cuando pasen los años, nos van a tener que reconocer por la dentadura. Quedarán sólo las cucarachas, que la vienen yugando desde tiempos prehistóricos. Yo sé que -sacada la porquería del humanismo- en la escala de valores del cosmos, una cucaracha vale lo mismo que un ser humano.

Veteranos del pánico
Fabián Casas, 2000