Many a work moves us because we still see in it the imprint left by the author who has departed from it too hastily, impatient to finish with it, fearful that if he didn’t have done with it, he would never be able to return to the light of day. In these works, which are too great, greater than those who bear them, the supreme moment — the nearly central point at which we know that if the author remains there, he will die in the undertaking — is always perceptible. It is from this mortal point that we see the great, heroic creators depart — but slowly, almost peacefully — and come back with an even step toward the surface which the firm, regular stroke of the radius permits to curve according to the perfections of the sphere. But how many others are there who can only tear themselves from the irresistible attraction of the center with an inharmonious violence, leaving behind them, like scars of badly knit wounds, the traces of their successive flights, their inconsolable returns, their aberrant comings and goings? The most sincere openly leave to abandon what they have themselves abandoned. Others hide the ruins, and this concealment becomes the only truth of their books.
Blanchot, from The Space of Literature
It’s an awesome and terrible thing to read a necessarily, heroically unfinished text. A text left open and hanging. Bolaño discusses the difference between the hermetic, “perfect” text and the bloody, torrential, “imperfect” work here.
It is regularly said of the artist that he finds in his work a convenient way of living while withdrawing from life’s responsibilities. He is said to protect himself from the world where action is difficult by establishing himself in an unreal world over which he reigns supreme. This is, in fact, one of the risks of artistic activity: to exile oneself from the difficulties of time and of active pursuits in time without, however, renouncing the comfort of the world or the apparent easiness of pursuits outside time. The artist often seems a weak being who cringes within the closed sphere of his work where, speaking as master and acting without any obstacles, he can take revenge for his failures in society. Even Stendhal, even Balzac inspire this suspicion; Kafka, Hölderlin certainly do — and Homer is blind. But this perspective only expresses one side of the situation. The other side is that the artist who willingly exposes himself to the risks of the experience which is his does not feel free of the world, but, rather, deprived of it; he does not feel that he is master of himself, but rather that he is absent from himself and exposed to demands which, casting him out of life and out of living, open him to that moment at which he cannot do anything and is no longer himself. It is then that Rimbaud flees into the desert from the responsibilities of the poetic decision. He buries his imagination and his glory. He says “adieu” to “the impossible” in the same way that Leonardo da Vinci does and almost in the same terms. He does not come back to the world; he takes refuge in it; and bit by bit his days, devoted henceforth to the aridity of gold, make a shelter for him of protective forgiveness. If it is true, as doubtful sources have it, that in his last years he would not stand for any mention of his work or that he repeatedly said of himself, “absurd, ridiculous, disgusting,” the violence of his disavowal, the refusal to remember himself shows the terror which he still felt and the force of the upheaval which he could not undergo to the limit. He is reproached with having sold out and deserted, but the reproach is easy for those who have not run the risk.Blanchot, from The Space of Literature
brooklyn, up to 6/3/2014
reading sontag diaries. will be posting an assortment of curated extracts over the next few days. steel yourselves.
The list in our time (“28 Places To See Before You Die,” or else what?) makes its fantastical claim that order exists, that order can be known, that order is known by someone who will describe it to you, that you will be able to make sense of the description: but this is not true. In the simplest sense, there is no order, and what scanty order there is is almost incomprehensible; as the chair of Harvard’s physics department once told me about her research in Switzerland at the Large Hadron Collider, “If at any moment you think you understand it, that’s how you can tell you’ve made a mistake.” The majority of those who claim to comprehend the barely existing order are lying either to themselves or to us, or both: we can rescue splinters of temporary significance from the wreckage and general falsehood only after our most extreme efforts.J.D. Daniels, on listicles.