"No brief comment can adequately describe this book; it is impossible even to categorize it. But this is true of Nietzsche's writings, too, and it is with Nietzsche that I can most readily compare Jalal Toufic. Like Nietzsche, Toufic is a writer of philosophical aphorisms, manifestations of the intensest of experiences under pressure of incomparable intelligence. But Nietzsche was no miniaturist, and neither is Toufic. The pressure that the thinking must withstand makes the writing remarkably concise, but its power is enormous, its scope vast, its effect sweeping. This, Jalal Toufic's fifth book, can be read as a single aphorism, an aphorism composed of aphorisms. And though it is the shortest of his books to date, it is perhaps also the greatest.... Toufic's writings have already attracted something of a cult following; it is likely that Undying Love, or Love Dies will bring him a far larger readership. Certainly that is something to be hoped for. There is, in my opinion, no more subtle or powerful thinker today than Jalal Toufic, and none whose ideas are, in the end, more beautiful" (Lyn Hejinian, author of A Border Comedy , The Cold of Poetry , The Cell , My Life , The Language of Inquiry , and Professor in the English Department, University of California at Berkeley).
I like how he seems to have this one thesis, and all his books, whether poetry, prose or a hybrid of the two, are really all about this one thing. Or it is nice to know where you are going when you don't know where you are.
Mind bending book, that I've yet to process and that I'll have to reread but possibly as impactful and mind expanding as was Barthes when I first read him. His Sufi reading (or is it his own reimagination?) of Iblis's rebellion is a bit too out there for me right now, but I applaud the radical point of view nonetheless, and it still gives me pause. The bits about cities that underwent destruction and trauma, and their relation to memory is fascinating. The myth of Orpheus as he recounts it is perhaps what is most challenging as it is complicated and interspersed with Jalal's own (or his character's) failed marriage. But again, this book needs several readings to begin to be grasped, and I'm only at my first.
Iblis was dazzled by these debased states: how could all this come from him, an angel? Idolatry, love of sacrilege, anger, lechery, lying, laziness, sloth, betrayal, a treacherous tongue, and the other vices and sins Rimbaud catalogues in A Season in Hell are not what one finds in hell, but a manner of forgetting it.