They sing songs of their devotion to the control box. They sing: We are jewels. We are idea. We are more mind than matter. The air is cruel between us. We hover, a pestilence, supplicants to this division.
Regan Good, The Book of Nature, “Monument Of Mind And Matter.”
Attack the story like a radiant suicide, utter the great NO to life without weakness; then you will see a magnificent cathedral, and your senses, vectors of unutterable derangement, will map out an integral delirium that will be lost in the unnameable architecture of time.
Michel Houellebecq, H. P. Lovecraft: Against The World, Against Life.
The symbol may, with Emerson’s sphynx, say to man, Of thine eye, I am eyebeam.
Charles Sanders Pierce.
Right or wrong, it’s very pleasant to break something from time to time.
Fedor Dostoevski (via hypersexualgirl)
This text, then, is also the piece, perhaps a piece of counterfeit money, that is, a machine for provoking events.
Jacques Derrida, On Given Time I: Counterfeit Money.
The more I examine the universe and the details of its architecture, the more evidence I find that the universe in some sense must have known we were coming.
Freeman Dyson.
Never yet has truth hung on the arm of the unconditional.
Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra (via fuckyeahthusspokezarathustra) (via dystopium)
Almost always, attached to the idea of a conversation which might clear up a misunderstanding, there is another idea which, for some reason or other, prevents us from taking part in such a conversation.
Marcel Proust (via fuckyeahproust) (via dystopium)
What is written without effort is in general read without pleasure.
Samuel Johnson (via hypersexualgirl)
Rather know nothing than half-know much! Rather be a fool on one’s own than a sage according to the opinion of others!
Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra (via fuckyeahthusspokezarathustra) (via dystopium)
After one look at this planet any visitor from outer space would say ‘I want to see the manager.’
William S. Burroughs (via hypersexualgirl)
Writing: as if I had the urge to go on enjoying, to feel full, to push, to feel the force of my muscles, and my harmony, to be pregnant and at the same time to give myself the joys of parturition, the joys of both the mother and the child. To give birth to myself and to nurse myself, too. Life summons life. Pleasure seeks renewal.
Hélène Cixous, “Coming to Writing.”
