Fariha’s Reviews > The Passion According to G.H. > Status Update

I don't want to know what the thing I would now call the nothing" is made of! I don't want to feel directly in my very delicate mouth the salt in the eyes of the roach, because, my mother, I had been used to the sogginess of its layers and not the simple moistness of the thing.
I realized that I was still using the old human beauty: salt.
Even the beauty of salt and the beauty of tears I would have to abandon.

I want to find the redemption in today, in right now, in the reality that is being, and not in the promise, I want to find joy in this instant—I want the God in whatever comes out of the roach's belly—

What comes out of the roach's belly is not transcendable—ah, I don't want to say that it's the opposite of beauty, "opposite of beauty" doesn't even make sense—what comes out of the roach is: "today," blessed be the fruit of thy womb—I want the present without dressing it up with a future that redeems it, not even with a hope—until now what hope wanted in me was just to conjure away the present.

Transcending is a transgression. But staying inside whatever is, that demands that I be fearless!

Since like me, you wanted to transcend life and therefore surpassed it. But now I won't be able to transcend anymore, I will have to know, and will go without you,whom I tried to ask for help.Pray for me, my mother, since not transcending is a sacrifice, and transcending used to be my human effort at salvation,there was an immediate usefulness in transcending.

Closed-mouth canticle, sound vibrating deaf like something imprisoned and contained, amen, amen. Canticle of thanksgiving for the murder of one being by another being.
The deepest murder: the one that is a way of relating, a way of one being existing the other being, a way of seeing one other and being one other and having one other, murder where there is neither victim nor executioner, but a link of mutual ferocity.

For the first time in my life it was fully about now. This was the greatest brutality I had ever received.
For the present has no hope, and the present has no future: the future will be exactly once again present.

Now is time swollen to the limit. Eleven o'clock has no depth. Eleven o'clock is full of eleven hours up to the brim of the green glass. Time trembles as a motionless balloon. The air fertilized and wheezing. Until in a national anthem the ringing of eleven-thirty cuts the cables of the balloon. And suddenly we will all reach noon. Which will be green like now.

It was finally now. The country was in eleven in the morning. Superficially as a yard that is green, of the most delicate superficiality. Green, green—green is a yard. Between me and the green, the water of the air. The green water of the air. I see everything through a full glass. Nothing is heard. In the rest of the house the shadows are all swollen. The ripe superficiality.

I had never before known that the time to live also has no word...The time to live is so hellishly inexpressive that it is the nothing. What I was calling "nothing" was nevertheless so stuck to me that to me it was . . . I? and that's why it was becoming invisible as I was invisible to myself, and it was becoming the nothing.