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of a whole (iii)

February 14, 2009

Presence … What is Presence beyond its disappearance in the finite? — Presence is uncertain. It is the uncertain Power. The May-Be.

Light is blind. The shiver is blind and seemingly deprived of itself. It bestows sight, but does not see. It grants innumerable sights which express, not light, but what they see, which express in the end only self.

That which grants sight, by its very nature escapes the sight which it grants.
And does not see itself.
Except perhaps in these sights … If it is not distinct from that which sees, if it is only such due to what may perhaps see what sees …

Something calls to us, shouts at us and perhaps obligates us. But is it really with speech? What calls us perhaps only requires silence from us, its silence, its dumbness.

Echo, true and only voice, obsessive rumour.
The echo repeats. Repeats. It responds in like. It responds in absence.
Voice replying without response in place of absence. Which repeating the question and the question of the question, reduces it, exhausts it, abolishes it, bit by bit, in the element of the Same.

One does not know, one will never know the last word. We die without knowing it, swept away by the suspense, snatched. Giving cause for suspense.

Death always sudden. I disappear, I efface myself.
I nullify my history. I nullify all history.
Nothing has happened.

Death alone is in the present.

If we are elected, it is only by vertigo.

Meaning is only a thin layer, like the earth’s crust. It is not always safe.
And sometimes there are tremors of meaning.

Aphorism, fragment.
Rapidly, like in a breath, saying what needs to be said. “Rendering” with the minimum of means.
Rendered for Whom?
Exhaling.

Sunflower. Eye of black velvet; astonished eye, black and open over its own abyss.
Beauty cannot, must not know itself. It can only be grasped by being beauty. Beauty which when reflected dies: Narcissus …
Then only the sunflower is standing in the emptiness of the light, facing the sun which does not reflect it, but instead inhales and consumes it.

The mountain is the sacred, but the sea is the source. The former looms overhead, uplifts. It erects. But the sea levels.

The thorny plants (brambles, roses, etc.), in the earth, in the element, are not thorns. They are only a smooth, naked body, blessed.
They merge with the light, beyond the blossoming, sharp and hard.

Basically the world, this present world, is born and dies with me, is equal to my passing.
In its durability, indefinitely, innumerably discontinuous and mortal.
There is the world of those who live, which ceases with each life, to resume in every life …
The world is only in the life which names it. Afterwards, it only exists for those lives left to name it.
After, all that remains is what affects others, and speech, the essence of the world in these other lives. This is the only way to survive.

One must look for the anonymous, the dull. Be afraid of the privileged moment, the “state of grace.” What counts is simply being in one’s present state. There is no permanence in the state of grace, but only in the present state.

In the orchard, the yellowed leaf falls from the cherry tree, tired of day, obliterates all speech.
It briefly falls through the evening light, to settle on the grass with hardly a sound.
There it remains abandoned.

Little counts. So little that maybe it only coincides with disappearance; in that it only agrees, gives itself to what vanishes, dies.
Is life only for giving us a taste of so little? The visible, the diverse, is it only a distraction, like the excess in the appearance of so little, and for which the sole end may be accomplished by the suspense, this kind of retreat to the summit which is, in the visible and the diverse, the emergence of so little?
(So little, it is too difficult to talk about.)

There is no death. There is only the death of others. I will never know my own death. There is no end, for the end is not experienced. There is no experience of what is absolutely ultimate and terminal.
And so my life is my eternity.

The bloated, worm-eaten apple does not know that it is bloated, worm-eaten. It is I who know this, who says such.
The apple does not know that it is an apple. Nothing knows, except us. That is how everything is. Fully. Solely.
Know and being are mutually exclusive, like water and fire. That which knows itself, that which knows does not exist. Is external.
Knowledge is evil.
On the other hand, the worm-eaten apple falls simply because it falls. And the grass, simply because it is grass, receives it, without knowing that it receives anything.
While the apple, slowly, experiences rotting, ecstatic.

Roger Munier
from D’un seul tenant
tr. Michael Tweed

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