Saturday, 3 December 2011

"The mind loves the unknown. It loves images whose meaning is unknown, since the meaning of the mind itself is unknown." - Rene Magritte

All my life, my heart has yearned for a thing I cannot name.”  - Andre Breton

You will be grateful, madam, that I spare you the recital of our cries, our despair, when we sensed that we were in want of everything-that whatever might exist destroys at each step whatever does exist; that whatever we touch, from place to place, becomes volatile in absolute solitude. You are the one who enters the colourless enclosure, who consecrates the tides to this damning efflorescence.
The marvelous part of it all, madam, is that on the coast where you cause us to be thrown, half dead, we retain the wonder-struck memory of our disaster. There are no more living birds, no more real flowers. The disappointment of knowing himself to be unique stirs in every being. Even what is born to him does not belong to him. Indeed is anything really born to him? How does he know? The wonder is that the submerging of all this splendor is a question of time, almost of age, let us say, and that we may discover any day a flotsam on the sand, where we felt sure there was nothing the night before. I bring you the most beautiful and perhaps the only remnants of my shipwreck. In this cask, for which I have not the key, and which I give to you, slumbers the disarming idea of presence and absence in love.
”  - Andre Breton

Every life contains these homogenous patterns of facts, whose surface is cracked or cloudy. Each person has only to stare at them fixedly in order to read his own future. Let him enter the whirlwind: let him retrace the events which have seemed to him fleeting and obscure among all others, which have torn him apart. There—if his questioning is worth it—all the logical principles, having been routed, will bring him the strength of that objective chance which makes a mockery of what would have seemed most probable. Everything humans might want to know is written upon this grid [of experiences] in phosphorescent letters, in letters of desire.”  - Andre Breton

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