No, suicide is still a hypothesis. I claim the right to doubt suicide the same way I doubt the rest of reality. For the instant and until further notice, one must horrifically doubt not existence, strictly speaking, which is within the grasp of pretty much anyone, but the internal undermining and the profound sensitivity of things, of acts, of reality. I believe in nothing to which I’m not attached by the sensitivity of a thinking and meteoric cord, and even so I am lacking a few too many meteors in action. The constructed and feeling existence of all men bothers me, and I resolutely abominate all reality. Suicide is nothing but the fabulous and far-off conquest of men who think straight, but the state itself is incomprehensible to me. The suicide of a neurasthenic lacks any representative value, but the mental state of a man who would have carefully determined his suicide, the material circumstances, and the moment of the pulling of the trigger is marvelous. I am ignorant of things, I am ignorant of everything concerning the human state; nothing of the world revolves for or in me. I suffer terribly from life. I can’t attain any state. And it is absolutely certain that I have long been dead: I already committed suicide. That is to say, I was suicided. But what would you think of an anterior suicide, of a suicide that would make us go back to where we started, but to the other side of existence and not that of death. That one alone would be of value to me. I have no appetite for death; I feel an appetite to not be, to never descend into the pleasures of the imbecilities, abdications, renunciations and obtuse encounters that are the self of Antonin Artaud and are much weaker than he. The self of that wandering sick man who from time to time proposes his shadow, upon which he himself has for a long time spit, this dragging, lame self, this virtual and impossible self, that even so finds itself in reality. No one has felt his weakness so much as he, which is the principal and essential weakness of humanity. To be destroyed, to not exist.
Antonin Artaud, in response to the inquiry “Is Suicide a Solution?,” published in issue no. 2 of La Révolution Surréaliste, January 15th, 1925 (via ljosio)
I experience alternately two nights; one bad and one good. Most often I am in the very darkness of my desire; I know not what it wants, good itself is an evil to me, everything resounds, I live between blows, my head ringing; I am blinded by attachment to things and emotions. But sometimes too, it is another night; I think quite calmly about the other, as the other is; I suspend any interpretation; I enter into the night of non meaning; desire continues to vibrate (the darkness is transluminous), but there is nothing I want to grasp; this is the Night of non-profit, of subtle, invisible expenditure: I am here, sitting simply and calmly in the dark interior of love.
Roland Barthes. A Lover’s Discourse (via goghst)
She wouldn’t say what we both knew. “The reason you will not say it is, when you say it, even to yourself, you will know it is true: is that it? But you know it is true now. I can almost tell you the day when you knew it is true. Why won’t you say it, even to yourself?”
And all this ceaseless labor—to what end? Merely to entomb oneself deeper and deeper in silence, it seems, so deep that one can never be dragged out of it again by anybody.
And what is the most terrible thing about boredom? Why do we rush to dispel it? Because it is a distraction-free state which soon enough reveals underlying unpalatable truths about existence—our insignificance, our meaningless existence, our inexorable progression to deterioration and death.
"I don’t understand… I just don’t understand. I’ve never heard such a strange story."
Rashomon - Akira Kurosawa
What if all these books never gave me anything like what she gave me? And what if the monuments we build or the corpses we can still dig up from the soil don’t teach us anything? And what if creating more of us doesn’t give us anything more? The path up the hill leads to the windmill but walking it does’t lead us anywhere. The order we put here is so we do not lose our way. Apparent is a magic trick, in the tent show the only role I play is the digger of my own disorder, without precedent or soul, the father of my own entropic son. What if like a bullet from a jealous gun we become dog meat in a crime of passion? In white sheets against the riverbanks in a gurney that’s unfit to carry. Two create river run flows of crimson and the third is lodged inside the spine. To be casketed like wine in unforgiving and eroding soil. Never ending always ending floating away potent and dissolving.