“The world is about to end. Its sole reason
for continuance is that it exists, And how
feeble is this reason, compared with those
that announce the contrary…”
— Charles Baudelaire
Most books demand solitude, this one screams for solitude, for you to take yourself away from any still pulsing, breathing encumbrance; so as to exist, in single file, as a witness to the death of humanity across turned pages.
No more than one witness at a time is necessary, efficacious.
Otherwise there’ll be a lack of continuation, propagation.
Like Marx, this book is an anti-aphrodisiac – a stark reminder that all was, in fact, has been, lost.
Not least paradise, space, place, corridors of even a bureaucratic beauty.
Converted too late, we defend symbols to then be symbolised.
Start again. The post-human rings out in its own absence.
The overman, or something more abstractly sexed, is here to be built-up from the miniscule moments of bleak poetic relief:
“dust runs in the folds of the curtains”
“a pink cloud passess in the frozen lake”
“a flock of cranes flees towards the border; the sun irradiates the radio antenna”
The edge extended turns into a ledge.
A membrane defended, a de-cathexis. [Read more →]
