ninjutsu

Galvoju reikia pradėt dalintis citatom. Gal ateis laikas ir ne tik citatoms.

Gilles Deleuze, Essays Critical and Clinical. Verso, 1998.

"To write is certainly not to impose a form (of expression) on the matter of lived experience. Literature rather moves in the direction of the ill-formed or the incomplete, as Witold Gombrowicz said as well as practiced. Writing is a question of becoming, always incomplete, always in the midst of being formed, and goes beyond the matter of any livable or lived experience. It is a process, that is, a passage of Life that traverses both the livable and the lived. Writing is inseparable from becoming: in writing, one becomes-woman, becomes-animal or -vegetable, becomes-molecule, to the point of becoming-imperceptible. […] Becoming does not move in the other direction, and one does not become Man, insofar as man presents himself as a dominant form of expression that claims to impose itself on all matter, whereas woman, animal, or molecule always has a component of flight that escapes its own formalization. The shame of being a man - is there any better reason to write? Even when it is a woman who is becoming, she has to become-woman, and this becoming has nothing to do with a state she could claim as her own. To become is not to attain a form (identification, imitation, Mimesis) but to find the zone of proximity, indiscernibility, or undifferentiation where one can no longer be distinguished from a woman, an animal, or a molecule-neither imprecise nor general, but unforeseen and non-preexistent, singularized out of a population rather than determined in a form.” (1-2)

“To write is not to recount one's memories and voyages, one's loves and griefs, one's dreams and phantasms. It is the same thing to sin through an excess of reality as through an excess of the imagination.” (2)

“The writer as such is not a patient but rather a physician, the physician of himself and of the world. The work is set of symptoms whose illness merges with man. Literature then appears as an enterprise of health; not that the writer would necessarily be in good health (there would be the same ambiguity here as with athleticism), but he possesses irresistible and delicate health that stems from what he has seen and heard of things too big for him, too strong for him, suffocating things whose passage exhausts him while nonetheless giving him the becomings that dominant and substantial health would render impossible. The writer returns from what he has seen and heard with red eyes and pierced eardrums” (3)

“Health as literature, as writing, consists in inventing a people that is missing.” (4)

“Though it always refers to singular agents [agents] literature is a collective assemblage [agencement] of enunciation. Literature is delirium, but delirium is not a father-mother affair; there is no delirium that does not pass through peoples, races, and tribes and that does not haunt universal history. All delirium is world historical, "a displacement of races and continents." Literature is delirium, and as such its destiny is played out between the two poles of delirium. Delirium is a disease, the disease par excellence, whenever it erects a race it claims is pure and dominant. But it is the measure of health when it invokes this oppressed bastard race that ceaselessly stirs beneath dominations, resisting everything that crushes and imprisons, a race that is outlined in relief in literature as process. Here again, there is always the risk that a diseased state will interrupt the process or becoming; health and athleticism both confront the same ambiguity, the constant risk that a delirium of domination will be mixed with a bastard delirium, pushing literature toward a larval fascism, the disease against which it fights - even if this means diagnosing the fascism within itself and fighting against itself. The ultimate aim of literature is to release this creation of a health or this invention of a people-that is, a possibility of life - in the delirium. To write for this people that is missing ... (for means less 'in the place of' than 'for the benefit of').” (4)

“There are many diverse indications and procedures that the writer can apply to language in order to create a style. And whenever a language is submitted to such creative treatments, it is language in its entirety that is pushed to its limit, to music or silence” (55).

“Selecting singular cases and minor scenes is more important than any consideration of the whole.” (57)

“But it is also the reality of American literature, under these two aspects: spontaneity or the innate feeling for the fragmentary, and the reflection on living relations that must constantly be aquired and created” (60)

“It is libido’s business to haunt history and geography, to organize formations of worlds and constellations of universes, to make continents drift and to populate them with races, tribes, and nations” (62)

“Everyone can talk about his memories, invent stories, state opinions in his language; sometimes he even acquires a beautiful style, which gives him adequate means and makes him an appreciated writer. But when it is a matter of digging under the stories, cracking open the opinions, and reaching regions without memories, when the self must be destroyed, it is certainly not enough to be a ‘great’ writer, and the means must remain forever inadequate. Style becomes nonstyle, and one’s language lets an unknown foreign language escape from it, so that one can reach the limits of language itself and become something other than a writer, conquering fragmented visions that pass through the words of a poet, the colors of a painter, or the sounds of a musician” (113)

“the subjective disposition, that is to say, the force through which the images projected, is inseparably political, erotic, and artistic” (118)

“Character must not be confused with an ego. At the most profound level of subjectivity, there is not an ego but rather a singular composition, an idiosyncrasy, a secret cipher making marking he unique chance that these entities had been retained and willed, that this combination had been thrown and not another” (118)

“Character is the Beast: mind, will, desire, a desert-desire that brings together heterogenous entities” (118)

“The body without organs is an affective, intensive, anarchist body that consists solely of poles, zones, thresholds, and gradients. It is traversed by a powerful, nonorganic vitality.” (131)

“The way to escape judgment is to make yourself a body without organs, to find your body without organs” (131)

“combat, combat everywhere; it is combat that replaces judgment. And no doubt the combat appears as a combat against judgment, against its authorities and its personae. […] it is combatant himself who is combat: the combat between his own parts, between the forces that either subjugate or are subjugated, and between the powers that express these relations of force. [] The combat-between is the process through which a force enriches itself by seizing hold of other forces and joining itself to them in a new ensemble: a becoming. […] But whenever someone wants to make us renounce combat, what he is offering us is a ‘nothingness of the will’, a deification of the dream, a cult of death […] But neither is combat a ‘will to nothingness.’ Combat is not war. War is only a combat-against, a will to destruction, a judgment of God that turns destruction into something ‘just.’ The judgment of God is on the side of war, and not combat. […] war is the lowest degree of the will to power, its sickness” (132-133)

“Herein, perhaps, lies the secret: to bring into existence and not to judge. If it is so disgusting to judge, it is not because everything is of equal value, but on the contrary because what has value can be made or distinguished only by defying judgment. What expert judgment, in art, could ever bear on the work to come? It is not a question of judging other existing beings, but of sensing whether they agree or disagree with us, that is, whether they bring forces to us, or whether they return us to the miseries of war, to the poverty of the dream, to the rigors of organization” (135).

“fragmentation ‘is indispensable if one does not want to fall into representation…Isolate the parts. Make them independent as a way of giving them a new dependence’ [Robert Bresson] Disconnect them to allow for a new connection. Fragmentation is the first step in a depotentialization of space, through local paths” (165)

James Ensor, Intrigue. 1911
Ensoras naujas, netikėtas atradimas per W. Benjamin esė "Poverty and Experience"

Aišku tokie pasvarstymai žemiau jaučiasi kaip apsinuoginimas ir konfesija, neaišku kam ir dėl ko, bet iš kitos pusės, fuck it, nėra ko slėptis už išlaižytos stiklinės-metalinės saviarchitektūros. Sezoninis kvapas šiandien, aišku, kitas

vojeristo užrašai

žiema įsiskverbia. žiema patinka man dėl daug ko.
ne tik dėl šlapio, purvino sniego, geliančių kaulų,
sloguotų nosių, kosulio, aidinčio geriau ir dažniau
nei šiltą dieną, drebulio, vibravimo, surambėjimo, vėjo.

keliuosi ryte ir gulu vakare tamsoje. tiksliau,
ryte ir vakare žiūriu į kitus langus priešais name
šviesa tamsoje išryškina ne tik jų, bet ir jų augintinių
kontūrus. katės ir šunys, kaip ir aš, žiūri į
priešingą pusę. kaip aš nemato reikalo pagrįsti savo žvilgsnių.

rytiniai ir vakariniai ritualai ir judėjimai skiriasi.
ryte paspartintos tėkmės, erdvė karpoma žingsnių žirklių
daug dažniau nei vakare. vakare gulėjimas, technologijų
blyksėjimas, valgymas, merdėjimas, senėjimas, sulėtėjimas.

nors ir permatomos, bet bet kurios užuolaidos užstoja.
dar vienas šydas, dar vienas sluoksnis, dar vienas filtras
trukdantis priartėt, bet tuo pačiu stimulas priartėti kitaip
prasibrauti iki to kito, šešėlio, kontūro, silueto.

jie, šešėliai, nėra vieni. ir jie tą žino.
jeigu nežino, tai jaučia. jeigu nejaučia, nuspėja,
nors ir negali to ką jaučia išreikšti. arba nenori.
ar aš stebiu nieko nekeičia. jeigu visi mano namo langai
stebi jį, ją, juos, niekas nesikeičia. bet ir viskas keičiasi.

kartais stebiu save iš savo pasirinkto lango, veiksmo,
šešėlio, veidrodžio pozicijos. ką matau? matau beveik tą patį.
gal didesnėj prieblandoj, bet be užuolaidų. matau tą patį
paviršių, kurį kai kas linkęs vadinti žmogumi. esu ne vienas.

ne rytą ir ne vakarą, jų, taip vadinamų žmonių, nebeatpažįstu.
savo taip vadinamų namų erdvėje, privatybėje jie vis vien su kauke
gatvėje, viešybėje, jie nenusiima jos, bet deda dar vieną kaukę.
iš čia formulė: namų kaukė = k, gatvės kaukė = k2 (kvadratu).
kitų erdvių kaukės, k3, k4, k5. k = ∞. nėra -k. nėra nekaukės.

ar vis dar nori tikėti, kad yra? smurte, prievartoje, mene,
nušvitime, meilėje, aistroje, apsvaigime, meditacijoje, mirtyje?
Šventoji šeima: tėvas, sūnus, dvasia. tėvas, kaukė, dvasia. kaukė,
sūnus, dvasia. tėvas, sūnus, kaukė. kaukė, kaukė, kaukė.

Maurice Blanchot, The Work of Fire, Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1995

What is strange about books like The Trial and The Castle is that they send us back endlessly to a truth outside of literature, while we begin to betray that truth as soon as it draws us away from literature, with which, however, it cannot be confused (1-2)

Subtlety, shrewdness, candor, loyalty, negligence are all equally the means to a mistake (a deception) that is in the truth of the words, in their exemplary power, in their clarity, their interest, their assurance, their power to lead us on, let us fall, pick us up again, in the unfailing faith in their meaning that does not permit one either to leave or to follow it. (4)

‘Then,’ he said, ‘the disaster happened.’ The disaster is the impossibility of death, it is the mockery thrown on all humankind’s great subterfuges, night, nothingness, silence. There is no end, there is no possibility of being done away with the day, with the meaning of things, with hope: such is the truth of Western man has made a symbol of felicity, and has tried to make bearable by focusing on its positive side, that immortality, of an afterlife that would compensate for life. But this afterlife is our actual life (8)

Existence is interminable, it is nothing but an indeterminacy; we do not know if we are excluded from it (which is why we search vainly in it for something solid to hold onto) or whether we are forever imprisoned in it (and so we turn desperately toward the outside). The existence is an exile in the fullest sense: we are not there we are elsewhere, and we will ever stop being there (9)

If [literature] has a mediocre purpose (for example, producing a well-written book), it demands an approach that is attentive to the whole and to details, mindful of the technique and composition, and aware of the power of the words; but if it aims higher (for example, examining the very meaning of life), then its approach is free of all these conditions, it can come about completely neglecting the very substance of which it is made (13)

Art can succeed where knowledge fails: because it is and is not true enough to become the way, and too unreal to change into an obstacle. Art is an as if. Everything happens as if we were in the presence of truth, but this presence is not one, that is why it does not forbid us to go forward. Art claims knowledge when knowledge is a step leading to eternal life, and it claims non-knowledge when knowledge is an obstacle drawn up in front of this life. It changes its meaning and its sign. It destroys itself while it survives (18-19)

To write is to engage oneself; but to write is also to disengage yourself, to commit oneself irresponsibly. To write is to call into question one’s existence, the world of values, and, to a certain extent, to condemn the good; but to write is always to try to write well, to seek out the good. And then, to write is to take on the impossibility of writing, it is, like the sky, to be silent, to be an echo only for the mute’: but to write is to name silence, it is to write while preventing oneself from writing (26)

What does writing care about? To free us from what is. [...] This liberation is accomplished by the strange possibility we have creating emptiness around us, putting a distance between us and things. [...] Literature’s law is this movement toward something else, toward a beyond that yet escapes us because it cannot be. (39-40)

Silence is part of language: if we are quiet, that is a way of expressing ourselves. It has meaning, like any gesture, any facial expression; and, moreover, it owes this meaning to the proximity of language, whose absence it manifests (62)

Poetry that is at once the awareness of this endless surpassing, its means, and this surpassing itself, is never given: poetry has nothing to do with the world in which we live, which is, at least in appearance, a world of things completely made. Thence the primacy of the imaginary, the call for the marvellous, the invocation of the surreal. Poetry and life are ‘elsewhere’, but ‘elsewhere’ does not designate a spiritual or temporal region: elsewhere is nowhere; it signifies that existence in never where it is (92)

for thanks to the revolution, poetry understands that neither poetry nor poetic values really exist except at the moment when man, having nothing more to do, because everything is done, discovers the meaning and value of this nothing, the proper object of poetry and freedom both (96)

the most uncommitted literature is at the same time the most committed, because it knows that to claim to be free in a society that is not free is to accept responsibility for the constraints of that society and especially to accept the mystifications of the word ‘freedom’ by which society hides its intentions (97)

the poem does not belong to the easy world of used things, of word already spoken (102)

the poem goes toward absence, but it is to reconstruct total reality with it; it is striving toward the imaginary, but it aims for the ‘productive knowledge of Reality’ (102)

The image is neither an ornament nor a detail of the poem, nor some product of man’s sensibility: it is the poem manifested starting with things, the movement of things and beings trying to unite the heaviness of the depths of the earth and dazzling transparency, the line of flight and stability of a stature immovably placed (110)

What Rimbaud asks of poetry: not to produce beautiful works, or to answer to an aesthetic ideal, but to help man go somewhere, to be more than himself, to see more than he can see, to know what he cannot know – in a word, to make of literature an experience that concerns the whole of life and the whole of being (155)

Miller’s motivation is neither cruelty not hatred but insurrection and defiance, a rebellion for ambiguous truth, because it asserts itself against constraints of very different natures, in the name of an instinct for freedom that does not know exactly what it is or what threatens it (168)

It is in the mode of the imaginary that [fictional work] meets the real, it is by fiction that it approaches the truth. Absence and constant disguise, it progresses by oblique ways, and the obviousness that is its own has the duplicity of light. The novel is a work of bad faith, bad faith on the part of the novelist who believes in his characters and yet sees himself behind them, who does not know them, realizes them as unknowns, and finds in the language of which he is a master the means of manipulating them without ceasing to believe that they are escaping him (192-193)

Literary art is ambiguous. That means that none of its demands can exclude the opposing demand; on the contrary, the more they oppose each other, the more they evoke each other (193)

Writing is nothing if it does not involve the writer in a movement full of risks that will change him in one way or another. Writing is only a worthless game if this game does not become an adventurous experience, in which the one who pursues it, involving himself in a path whose outcomes escapes him, can learn what he does not know and lose what prevents him from knowing (244-245)

The purer the success, the greater the failure. Poetry in this sense is the realm of disaster (263)

In every book, written and read by someone worthy of writing it and worthy of reading it, there is this ‘I cannot write, I cannot read’ that is at the heart of language (270)

Literature begins at the moment when literature becomes a question (300)

The only one who matters in the work is the person who reads it. The reader makes the work; as he reads it, he creates it; he is its real author, he is the consciousness and the living substance of the written thing; and so the author now has only one goal, to write for that reader and merge with him. A hopeless endeavour. Because the reader has no use for a work written for him, what he wants is precisely an alien work in which he can discover something unknown, a different reality, a separate mind capable of transforming him and which he can transform into himself. An author who is writing for public is not really writing; it is the public that is writing, and for this reason the public can no longer be a reader; reading only appears to exist, actually it is nothing. This is why works created to be read are meaningless. (306)

Silence and nothingness are the essence of literature (309)

[The book] is an infinite source of new realities, and because of these new realities existence will be something it was not before (314)

[...] literature has two slopes. One side of literature is turned toward the moment of negation by which things are separated from themselves and destroyed in order to be known, subjugated, communicated [...]
But there is another side to literature. Literature is a concern for the reality of things, for their unknown, free, and silent existence; literature is their innocence and their forbidden presence, it is the being which protests against revelation, it is the defiance of what does not want to take place outside. In this way, it sympathizes with darkness, with aimless passion, with lawless violence, with everything in the world that seems to perpetuate the refusal to come into the world. In this way, too, it allies itself with the reality of language, it makes language into matter without contour, content without form, a force that is capricious and impersonal and says nothing, reveals nothing, simply announces—through its refusal to say anything—that it comes from the night and will return to night. (330)