"The marvelous logic of the mad which seems to mock that of the logicians because it resembles it so exactly, or rather because it is exactly the same, and because at the secret heart of madness, at the core of so many errors, so many absurdities, so many words and gestures without consequence, we discover, finally the hidden perfection of a language. 'From these things,' Zacchias concludes, ' you truly see how best to discuss the intellect.' The ultimate language of madness is that of reason, but the language of reason enveloped in the prestige of the image, limited to the locus of appearance which the image defines. It forms, outside the totality of images and the universality of discourse, an abusive, singular organization whose insistent quality constitutes madness."
-- Madness & Civilization, Michel Foucault.

"[...]the man of acute consciousness, who has come, of course, not out of the lap of nature but out of a retort[...]" Notes from the Underground, Dostoyevsky.

the goal, she said, is eventual self-generation

the end, he replied, is determined by how capable you are at fucking yourself over

Clear your mind of pretty things. Temper thoughts that burn. I have lost my time now, so I ask you this.

I hurry over to the low freckle that hangs on your ear. It has been erased. I will wait for it to reappear because that can be trusted.

It is hard to be so knotted?

women and anger

I find myself tempted
to read Wuthering Heights as one thick stacked act of revenge
for all that life withheld from Emily.
But the poetry shows traces of a deeper explanation.
As if anger could be a kind of vocation for some women.
It is a chilly thought.

Anne Carson, The Glass Essay

danube skyscape

Comme si cette grande colère m'avait purgé du mal, vidé d'espoir, devant cette nuit chargée du signes et d'étoiles, je m'ouvrais pour la première fois à la tendre indifférence du monde. De l'éprouver si pareil à moi, si fraternel enfin, j'ai senti que j'avais été heureux, et que je l'étais encore. Pour que tout soit consommé, pour que je me sente moins seul, il me restait à souhaiter qu'il y ait beaucoup de spectateurs le jour de mon exécution et qu'ils m'accueillent avec des cris de haine.

Albert Camus, L'Étranger