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Is it me ... or have things suddenly turned so much colder?

I have a portent and this is that: all hope of Summer is vanished, vanquished, gone.

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"I feel dizzy and my head spins. I discover that my "[self] confidence" makes me what I am - precisely because it deserts me. If I no longer have my assurance a VOID opens up at my feet. The reality of being is the naive certainty of chance, and the chance that elevated me leads me to ruination.

"I am ashamed to think that I am inferior to the greatest: so much so that I never think about it, I forget that others know nothing about me.

"The fear that Y. will abandon me, leaving me alone and, like an outcast, sick with the desire to lose myself, is finally getting to me.

A while ago I wept - or, dry-eyed, accepted the disgust; now day is breaking and the feeling of possible sorrow .... stretches within me like a SONG modulated in the throat of a soprano.

In the same circumstances: alcohol, stormy moments, painful sleep.

What joins me to Y. is the impossible, like a void in front of her and me, instead of a secure life together. The lack of a way out, the difficulties recurring in any case, the desire that goads us to go further than the heart can bear, the need to suffer from an endless laceration .... all this makes every hour a mixture of panic, expectation, audacity, anguish (more rarely, exasperating sensuality), which only action can resolve (but action ... ).

At that moment, desire (the anguish that accompanies friendship) was so wonderfully gratified that I despaired. That immense moment - like mad LAUGHTER, infinitely happy, unmasking what endures after it (by revealing the inevitable decline) ....

My solitude demoralises me.
A telephone call from Y. forewarns me: I doubt that I shall see her again for a long time.
I shiver with cold. Sudden, unexpected, Y.'s departure disheartens me.

Without that she-wolf challenge of Y. - lighting up the thickness of things like fire - everything is insipid and space is empty ....

.... life is withdrawing from me.

My reason for writing is to reach Y.

Like the owl, I fly in the night over my own misfortune.

The anguish has slowly returned, after that brief spell of immense tenderness ...

... I really ought rather to ...
... but I want to wipe out my pawprints ...

all qtes frm:

Geores Bataille ยท THE IMPOSSIBLE

{Part One: A Story of Rats}
{Micro edits/retranslation: i.p.}

[City Lights Books 1991 / Les Editions des Minuit 1962]

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posted by Ian 8/21/2003 08:54:00 PM

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