Status Updates From Die Passion nach G.H.: Roma...

Una Z

—I made such an effort to speak to myself of a hell that has no words. Now, how shall I speak of a love that only has whatever one feels, and before which the word "love" is a dusty object?

I was reaching what I had sought all my life: whatever is the most final identity and that I had called inexpressive. That was what had always been in my eyes in the snapshot: an inexpressive joy, a pleasure that does not know that it is pleasure—a pleasure too delicate for my coarse humanity that had always been made of coarse concepts.

I had offered my hell to the God. And my cruelty, my love, my cruelty had suddenly stopped. And suddenly that same desert was the still-vague sketch of what was called paradise. The moisture of a paradise. Not another thing, but that same desert. And I was surprised as one is surprised by a light that comes out of the nothing.

Could I be feeling what I would like to feel? Since a millimeter's difference is enormous, and that millimeter of space can save me through truth or once again make me lose everything I saw. It's dangerous. Men praise highly what they feel. Which is as dangerous as detesting what one feels.

Because I no longer even want the concretization of an ideal, what I want to be is just a seed. Even if afterwards from that seed ideals are born again, either the real ones, which are the birth of a path, or the false ones, which are the accretions.

I was wondering if I was fleeing toward a God because I couldn't stand my humanity. Because I needed someone who wasn't petty like me, someone who was so much wider than I in order to allow my misfortune without even using pity and solace—someone who was, who was! and not, like me, an accuser of nature, not like me, a person astonished by the power of my own hates and loves.

I was offering my hell to God. The first sob had made—of my terrible pleasure and of my feast—a new pain: that now was as light and helpless as the flower of my own desert. The tears that were flowing now were like those for a love. The God, who could never be understood by me except as I understood Him: breaking me like a flower that at birth can barely hold itself up and seems to break.

Trial. Now I understand what a trial is. Trial: it means that life is trying me. But trial: means that I too am trying. And trying can become an ever more insatiable thirst.

I come down like a cat on the roofs. Nobody knows, nobody sees. I turn up in the dark, mute and aglow. Fifty-three flutes run after us. Ahead of us a clarinet lights us. And nothing more is given to me to know.

I was in the heart of matter that is the indifferent explosion of itself. Life was having the strength of a titanic indifference. A titanic indifference that wanted to advance. And I, who wanted to advance with it, had been hooked on the pleasure that was making me merely hellish.
The temptation of pleasure. The temptation is to eat directly from the source. The temptation is to eat directly from the law.

A roach is greater than I because its life is so given over to Him that it comes from the infinite and goes toward the infinite without noticing, it doesn't miss a beat.

My grandeur, searching for the grandeur of the God, had taken me to the grandeur of hell. I had not been able to understand His organization except through the spasm of a demonic exultation.
He wanted my human divinity, and that had to start with an initial stripping-down of the constructed human.

I am so fucking jealous of her prose. I’d let the ghost of Clarice Lispector possess me if it meant I could write with this much freedom and command

she really said i’m going to sit in this room and write a book about it

But if I made up what happened to me yesterday — who can guarantee that I didn’t also invent my entire life prior to yesterday?