"The thing itself always slips away, which is what [Derrida], following Levinas, calls the “wholly other” that we love, what we want, in fact, to protect and “keep safe.” In a manner that reminds us of nothing so much as “negative theology,” he says that the thing itself is safe (sauf) if, and only if, it is safely secreted away, if what presents itself as the real is everything safe (sauf) the thing itself, which safely slips away. That is what Levinas means when he says that love “is a relation with that which slips away” (une relation avec ce qui se dérobe à jamais). For Derrida, in much the same sense as Levinas, love means to “surrender to the impossible,” se rendre, to render oneself over to, to give up one’s arms, and give oneself back to the impossible: “To surrender to the other, and this is the impossible, would amount to giving oneself over in going toward the other, to coming toward the other but without crossing the threshold, and to respecting, to loving even the invisibility that keeps the other inaccessible.”The “(loved) other” l’autre (aimé) must remain other, must be kept safe as other; and we must lay down our arms (rendre les armes) and surrender. By sacrificing or giving up the assault of “realism” on the world, we allow the thing itself to slip away—just to keep it safe and to show it our love—which is, of course, very close to Augustine saying that if you understand it, then what you understand is not God. If it is God, it eludes your grasp and always slips away."

John D. Caputo, What Would Jesus Deconstruct: The Good News of Post-modernism for the Church (via heteroglossia)

48 notes

(Source: jeffbritta, via knittybiddy)

15,696 notes

historyfuhrer:

French and Croatian volunteers on the Eastern Front 1942.

historyfuhrer:

French and Croatian volunteers on the Eastern Front 1942.

(via herrgod-herrlucifer)

556 notes

"Genders, then, can be neither true nor false, neither real nor apparent. And yet, one is compelled to live in a world in which genders constitute univocal signifiers, in which gender is stabilized, polarized, rendered discrete and intractable. In effect, gender is made to comply with a model of truth and falsity which not only contradicts its own performative fluidity, but serves a social policy of gender regulation and control."

Judith Butler, “Performative Acts and Gender Constitution: An Essay in Phenomenology and Feminist Theory” (via heteroglossia)

309 notes

"No sooner do you appear on the roof than you blab nonsense, and I’ll tell you what it is—it’s in your intonation. You pronounce your words as if you refuse to acknowledge the existence of shadows or evil. But would you kindly ponder this question: What would your good do if evil didn’t exist, and what would the earth look like if all the shadows disappeared? After all, shadows are cast by things and people. Here is the shadow of my sword. But shadows also come from trees and from living beings. Do you want to strip the earth of all trees and living things just because of your fantasy of enjoying naked light? You’re stupid."

Mikhail Bulgakov — from The Master and Margarita  (via slothnorentropy)

28 notes

likeafieldmouse:

Sophie Calle - What Do You See? (2013)

1,084 notes

(Source: speedrasir, via a-barren-prairie-harpy)

582 notes

loungeagainstthemachine:

Samuel Aranda - An emaciated horse walks down in central Tyre, Lebanon 2006

loungeagainstthemachine:

Samuel Aranda - An emaciated horse walks down in central Tyre, Lebanon 2006

(via inkinsurgent)

290 notes

(Source: citizendev, via knittybiddy)

75,253 notes

"

"I was talking about time. It’s so hard for me to believe in it. Some things go. Pass on. Some things just stay. I used to think it was my rememory. You know. Some things you forget. Other things you never do. But it’s not. Places, places are still there. If a house burns down, it’s gone, but the place-the picture of it-stays, and not just in my rememory, but out there, in the world. What I remember is a picture floating around out there outside my head. I mean, even if I don’t think it, even if I die, the picture of what I did, or knew, or saw is still out there. Right in the place where it happened."

“Can other people see it?” asked Denver.

“Oh, yes. Oh, yes, yes, yes. Someday you be walking down the road and you hear something or see something going on. So clear. And you think it’s you thinking it up. A thought picture. But no. It’s when you bump into a rememory that belongs to somebody else. Where I was before I came here, that place is real. It’s never going away. Even if the whole farm-every tree and grass blade of it dies. The picture is still there and what’s more, if you go there-you who never was there-if you go there and stand in the place where it was, it will happen again; it will be there for you, waiting for you. So, Denver, you can’t never go there. Never. Because even though it’s all over-over and done with-it’s going to always be there waiting for you. That’s how come I had to get all my children out. No matter what.”

Denver picked at her fingernails. “If it’s still there, waiting, that must mean that nothing ever dies.”

Sethe looked right in Denver’s face. “Nothing ever does,” she said.

"

Toni Morrison, Beloved (via beneathbixbybridge)

2 notes

"In the first few seconds an aching sadness wrenched his heart, but it soon gave way to a feeling of sweet disquiet, the excitement of gypsy wanderlust."

Mikhail Bulgakov, The Master and Margarita (via fables-of-the-reconstruction)

(via beyondparting)

40 notes

103 Plays

(Source: survivalrate, via under-the-volcano)

34 notes

"Because you make so little impression, you see. You get born and you try this and you don’t know why only you keep on trying it and you are born at the same time with a lot of other people, all mixed up with them, like trying to, having to, move your arms and legs with string only the same strings are hitched to all the other arms and legs and the others all trying and they don’t know why either except that the strings are all in one another’s way like five or six people all trying to make a rug on the same loom only each one wants to weave his own pattern into the rug; and it can’t matter, you know that, or the Ones that set up the loom would have arranged things a little better, and yet it must matter because you keep on trying and then all of a sudden it’s all over and all you have left is a block of stone with scratches on it provided there was someone to remember to have the marble scratched and set up or had time to, and it rains on it and then sun shines on it and after a while they don’t even remember the name and what the scratches were trying to tell, and it doesn’t matter. And so maybe if you could go to someone, the stranger the better, and give them something-a scrap of paper-something, anything, it not to mean anything in itself and them not even to read it or keep it, not even bother to throw it away or destroy it, at least it would be something just because it would have happened, be remembered even if only from passing from one hand to another, one mind to another, and it would be at least a scratch, something, something that might make a mark on something that ‘was’ once for the reason that it can die someday, while the block of stone can’t be ‘is’ because it never can become ‘was’ because it can’t ever die or perish…"

Absalom, Absalom!, William Faulkner  (via little-red-robin-hood)

11 notes