“I did not yet penetrate Nietzsche.
I tried with Viagra, with everything.”

— Zizek

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

Lord Byron, She Walks in Beauty

AMEN

Thomas Pynchon goes brrrrrrrr [vid]

gotta read Les Misérables

the most artistic use of urophilia/coprophilia in a work goes to Pynchon btw (Gravity's rainbow)

I feel like if Slavoj zizek watched one piece he would be a fan of buggy the clown and so on and so on because he is pure ideological comedy, buggy is the gap between image and substance the only one falling upwards ascending through accidents and misunderstanding, buggy is both a failure and success at once

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

If You Forget Me
Pablo Neruda

“I remember a seminar I once attended that was led by a brilliant and flamboyant Hungarian analyst named Robert Bak.

The issue under debate was the nature of transference, and I raised my hand and asked rhetorically, ‘What would you call an interpersonal relationship where infantile wishes, and defences against those wishes, get expressed in such a way that the persons within that relationship don't see each other for what they objectively are but, rather, view each other in terms of their infantile needs and their infantile conflicts. What would you call that?’

And Bak looked over at me ironically and said, ‘I’d call that life’.”

Janet Malcolm (1934 - 2021), Psychoanalysis: The Impossible Profession, 1981

'We have been so desensitized by a hundred and fifty years of ceaselessly expanding technical prowess that we think nothing less complex and showy than a computer or a jet bomber deserves to be called “technology” at all.

As if linen were the same thing as flax — as if paper, ink, wheels, knives, clocks, chairs, aspirin pills, were natural objects, born with us like our teeth and fingers — as if steel saucepans with copper bottoms and fleece vests spun from recycled glass grew on trees, and we just picked them when they were ripe...'

— Ursula K Le Guin, A Rant About “Technology”