Radical Will
Fragments
“There’s a gap in between,
There’s a gap where we meet…”
- The pressure of time and not the bondage of epistemologies is what blurs the line between one’s work and one’s life, I know this because art in all its forms –and this includes the writers, is so cunningly determined by the fact of our death. Knowledge as an accumulation of facts, as a recollection in the sense of Hegel is always secondary to the truths that so artfully avoid time, avoid mortality; there is no crude thinking without contradiction and without avoidance. At times it seems as if Hegel were more of the garbage man than an art collector when he speaks of recollection.
- There’s no possibility of thought as an art and creative work if one’s afraid of being wrong. All thought is always wrong, this has been the problem with the great systems, and the struggle with completeness avoids the risk of aporia. No thought could have been ever possibly complete, and this why we are divorced from philosophy as a science, only an attitude has remained… This attitude is less familiar with the laughter of Socrates at his death than is with the miraculous fact that a biological birth can produce spirit, and thus, everything human ranging from politics to poetry and that we leave in this world as soon as we leave our own bodies; that is clearly contradictory: in the moment we are able to overcome the biological world of matter, we are thence forced to abandon our pretensions at the world of thoughts, in so far as we know. The performing artist is perhaps less allowed a share of wrong in the world, because he is primarily a seer whereas the thinker is a hearer, but hold on! Who is the speaker then?
- Art and Medicine have never left their pagan ways and that is why the ultimate counterpart of aesthetics and healing is always death. Philosophy and Poetry most likely did become monotheistic, perhaps as early as St. Paul, but their theoretical stance is clear-cut: in so far as no politics is concerned, they constitute a study of death, but they cannot actually practice it like physicians and the artist that drops the last brush from the canvas, or the photographers who steals singled-out broken pieces from the world of reality. Rilke was definitely a man of strong inclination toward God and might have loathed the Gospels, because as a careful hearer he took delight in the everyday miracle and in the prophet of the so very obvious, the healing of the leper might hold no treasure for him at all.
- The statement so often heard that art and philosophy are the same is a blatant lie, for the performance of art which also takes place among the most talented philosophers when they write their work is so completely external to the constraints of the thinking activity, that is why in our days so many aphorisms, journals and autobiographical sketches of great philosophers have become so popular –it is a hindsight into a thought still unfolding today. The artist can only work from the other end of the syllogism. Art is based on the performance and philosophy in the interpretation, philosophy is never original, that is how it has survived so much original mediocrity.
- People often accuse us of not living in reality, in not taking the world for what is, and this is the greatest metaphysical fallacy of all empirical hermeneutics that have come so far as to becoming the everyday wisdom of even the lamest man, who has mistaken this for philosophy. The fallacy comes out in the open right at the moment that we use our senses to interpret life and the world, from that moment on we have left the empirical world, this is what social science can never accept, less it risk being sacrificed. Hereby with world we do not mean the biological earth but the life world of phenomenology. There’s yet another world, the human world –the network of all relationships between human beings that at the most fundamental level construe the palette of memory and give us therefore a right to a history, -the human version of photosynthesis. In order to take the biological world for what it is we are in need of some paralyzing mental condition such as schizophrenia, and not meant in the sense of the cultural sciences, as a common disease, here we speak of the loneliest of all possible conditions –one so very lonely that in its inner cluster not even thinking about oneself is a possibility. The person who might be able to take the human world for what is needs one of two things, an infinite amount of ignorance or the talent of Virginia Woolf. Both are immortal in a close relationship to non-living, albeit in different senses: the former has never lived, and the latter is already dead.
- Carl Schmitt says that we have never lived in the universe, at least not since we are so-called Christians; we are in fact living in a pluriverse. This is confirmed by the so many orders that we find in the world, not always in hierarchical manner… There’s too much empty space in the world for that, however we are running out of empty places, the lack of space causes the boredom of a hero without a loving God, and the lack of place causes death in so far as it is stealing our lifetime without any minimum regard for the laws of the universe, for the endless suffering of the actor, it is indifferent to the timeline of autobiography and story… Perhaps this is the problem, that all space in so far as it is space is always empty and all places in so far as they are places are always occupied. This might be a serious theological problem; a certain Catholic liturgical song speaks of a God everywhere but nowhere, everywhere because he fills all the space but nowhere because he might be unable to occupy specific places. We have learnt from classical physics that places have three dimensions no matter what, however modern science might teach something interesting about space: it leads only in one direction, always against eternity. Space is not a geometrical concept, had the Greeks understood this, they could have never believed in the eternal return. It is not eternity what rules the natural world but rather constant creation, as if it were a science of language this whole creation business. If the space would not run counter to eternity, we could never feel what we become older, and however immortal, the Greek gods seem to have aged at some point. A certain poet in Jerusalem said that the Jewish God was the youngest yeshiva boy and the oldest wise rabbi, both at the same time… Holding men in the two-fold pressure of the Kafkian paradox: Chained to the earth as he reaches for the skies, and chained to the skies as he reaches for the earth.
- For many days I do not sleep or search for my grave… The thoughts run in my mind as if they were desires for somebody, conversations take place that elucidate long obscure passages unlearnt long ago, and then the morning forces me in my weariness into the hefty books and the love of strangers, the endless lust for yet another conversation, the helpless desire to remain at the train station without departing toward any of the truer worlds where one is no longer avoiding this so called raw materials of reality. Perhaps there is a real desire for somebody and the engagement is theological only in so far as it is a quest for an anthropology of language: the style of this radical will is to find a language as inconclusive as that of the creation, I crave for yet one well-construed sentence, for a passage elucidated by a passer-by, but the noises are screeching, mute, and not beautiful enough to be called violent. I search for the gap in between, perhaps the only place where man could be at home: a highway, the train station, the traffic jam, but only when he is certain about his impossible destination.
Fragments
“There’s a gap in between,
There’s a gap where we meet…”
- The pressure of time and not the bondage of epistemologies is what blurs the line between one’s work and one’s life, I know this because art in all its forms –and this includes the writers, is so cunningly determined by the fact of our death. Knowledge as an accumulation of facts, as a recollection in the sense of Hegel is always secondary to the truths that so artfully avoid time, avoid mortality; there is no crude thinking without contradiction and without avoidance. At times it seems as if Hegel were more of the garbage man than an art collector when he speaks of recollection.
- There’s no possibility of thought as an art and creative work if one’s afraid of being wrong. All thought is always wrong, this has been the problem with the great systems, and the struggle with completeness avoids the risk of aporia. No thought could have been ever possibly complete, and this why we are divorced from philosophy as a science, only an attitude has remained… This attitude is less familiar with the laughter of Socrates at his death than is with the miraculous fact that a biological birth can produce spirit, and thus, everything human ranging from politics to poetry and that we leave in this world as soon as we leave our own bodies; that is clearly contradictory: in the moment we are able to overcome the biological world of matter, we are thence forced to abandon our pretensions at the world of thoughts, in so far as we know. The performing artist is perhaps less allowed a share of wrong in the world, because he is primarily a seer whereas the thinker is a hearer, but hold on! Who is the speaker then?
- Art and Medicine have never left their pagan ways and that is why the ultimate counterpart of aesthetics and healing is always death. Philosophy and Poetry most likely did become monotheistic, perhaps as early as St. Paul, but their theoretical stance is clear-cut: in so far as no politics is concerned, they constitute a study of death, but they cannot actually practice it like physicians and the artist that drops the last brush from the canvas, or the photographers who steals singled-out broken pieces from the world of reality. Rilke was definitely a man of strong inclination toward God and might have loathed the Gospels, because as a careful hearer he took delight in the everyday miracle and in the prophet of the so very obvious, the healing of the leper might hold no treasure for him at all.
- The statement so often heard that art and philosophy are the same is a blatant lie, for the performance of art which also takes place among the most talented philosophers when they write their work is so completely external to the constraints of the thinking activity, that is why in our days so many aphorisms, journals and autobiographical sketches of great philosophers have become so popular –it is a hindsight into a thought still unfolding today. The artist can only work from the other end of the syllogism. Art is based on the performance and philosophy in the interpretation, philosophy is never original, that is how it has survived so much original mediocrity.
- People often accuse us of not living in reality, in not taking the world for what is, and this is the greatest metaphysical fallacy of all empirical hermeneutics that have come so far as to becoming the everyday wisdom of even the lamest man, who has mistaken this for philosophy. The fallacy comes out in the open right at the moment that we use our senses to interpret life and the world, from that moment on we have left the empirical world, this is what social science can never accept, less it risk being sacrificed. Hereby with world we do not mean the biological earth but the life world of phenomenology. There’s yet another world, the human world –the network of all relationships between human beings that at the most fundamental level construe the palette of memory and give us therefore a right to a history, -the human version of photosynthesis. In order to take the biological world for what it is we are in need of some paralyzing mental condition such as schizophrenia, and not meant in the sense of the cultural sciences, as a common disease, here we speak of the loneliest of all possible conditions –one so very lonely that in its inner cluster not even thinking about oneself is a possibility. The person who might be able to take the human world for what is needs one of two things, an infinite amount of ignorance or the talent of Virginia Woolf. Both are immortal in a close relationship to non-living, albeit in different senses: the former has never lived, and the latter is already dead.
- Carl Schmitt says that we have never lived in the universe, at least not since we are so-called Christians; we are in fact living in a pluriverse. This is confirmed by the so many orders that we find in the world, not always in hierarchical manner… There’s too much empty space in the world for that, however we are running out of empty places, the lack of space causes the boredom of a hero without a loving God, and the lack of place causes death in so far as it is stealing our lifetime without any minimum regard for the laws of the universe, for the endless suffering of the actor, it is indifferent to the timeline of autobiography and story… Perhaps this is the problem, that all space in so far as it is space is always empty and all places in so far as they are places are always occupied. This might be a serious theological problem; a certain Catholic liturgical song speaks of a God everywhere but nowhere, everywhere because he fills all the space but nowhere because he might be unable to occupy specific places. We have learnt from classical physics that places have three dimensions no matter what, however modern science might teach something interesting about space: it leads only in one direction, always against eternity. Space is not a geometrical concept, had the Greeks understood this, they could have never believed in the eternal return. It is not eternity what rules the natural world but rather constant creation, as if it were a science of language this whole creation business. If the space would not run counter to eternity, we could never feel what we become older, and however immortal, the Greek gods seem to have aged at some point. A certain poet in Jerusalem said that the Jewish God was the youngest yeshiva boy and the oldest wise rabbi, both at the same time… Holding men in the two-fold pressure of the Kafkian paradox: Chained to the earth as he reaches for the skies, and chained to the skies as he reaches for the earth.
- For many days I do not sleep or search for my grave… The thoughts run in my mind as if they were desires for somebody, conversations take place that elucidate long obscure passages unlearnt long ago, and then the morning forces me in my weariness into the hefty books and the love of strangers, the endless lust for yet another conversation, the helpless desire to remain at the train station without departing toward any of the truer worlds where one is no longer avoiding this so called raw materials of reality. Perhaps there is a real desire for somebody and the engagement is theological only in so far as it is a quest for an anthropology of language: the style of this radical will is to find a language as inconclusive as that of the creation, I crave for yet one well-construed sentence, for a passage elucidated by a passer-by, but the noises are screeching, mute, and not beautiful enough to be called violent. I search for the gap in between, perhaps the only place where man could be at home: a highway, the train station, the traffic jam, but only when he is certain about his impossible destination.
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