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

Since how could I speak without the word lying for me? how could I speak except timidly like this: life just is for me.

At last I was stretching beyond my sensibility.
The world independed on me—

And handing myself over with the trust of belonging to the unknown. Since I can only pray to whatever I do not know.

My life does not have a merely human meaning, it is much greater—so much greater that, as humanity goes, it makes no sense. Of the general organization that was greater than I, I had previously only perceived the fragments. But now, I was much less than human—and I would only fulfill my specifically human destiny if I handed myself over, as I was handing myself over, to whatever was no longer I,

Finally, finally, my casing had really broken and without limit I was. Through not being, I was. To the ends of whatever I was not, I was. Whatever I am not, I am. All shall be within me, if I shall not be; for "I" is just one of the instantaneous spasms of the world.

Persistence is our effort, giving up is the reward. One only reaches it having experienced the power of building, and, despite the taste of power, preferring to give up. Giving up must be a choice. Giving up is the most sacred choice of a life. Giving up is the true human instant. And this alone, is the very glory of my condition.
Giving up is a revelation.

Reality is the raw material, language is the way I go in search of it—and the way I do not find it. But it is from searching and not finding that what I did not know was born, and which I instantly recognize. Language is my human effort. My destiny is to search and my destiny is to return empty-handed.

Reality precedes the voice that seeks it, but as the earth precedes the tree, but as the world precedes the man, but as the sea precedes the vision of the sea, life precedes love, the matter of the body precedes the body, and in turn language one day will have preceded the possession of silence.

My voice is the way I go in search of reality; reality, before my language, exists like a thought that is not thought, but inescapably I was and am compelled to need to know what the thought thinks.

Whatever we live from—and because it has no name only muteness pronounces it—it is from that that I draw closer to myself through the great largess of letting myself be.
I die without knowing wherefrom.