Marked Passages
― Plutarch, nowadays, would write the Parallel Lives of Losers.

― How easy it is to be “deep”: all you have to do is let yourself sink into your own flaws.

― No salvation, save in the imitation of silence. But our loquacity is prenatal. A race of rhetoricians, of verbose spermatozoons, we are chemically linked to the Word.

― …All commentary on a work is bad or futile, for whatever is not direct is null.

― What are the occupations of the age? He resigns himself to seeing, to eating, etc…., he accepts in spite of himself this “wound with nine openings,” which is what the Bhagavad-Gita calls the body.―Wisdom? To undergo with dignity the humiliation inflicted upon us by our holes.

― In this “great dormitory,” as one Taoist text calls the universe, nightmare is the sole mode of lucidity.

― The plant is mildly affected; the animal contrives to break down; in man the anomaly of all that breaths is exacerbated.

Life! homogeny of stupor and chemistry
… Shall we take refuge in the equilibrium of the mineral kingdom? Step backward over the realm dividing us from it and imitate normal stone?

― Death poses a problem which replaces all the others. What is deadlier to philosophy, to the naive belief in the hierarchy of perplexities?

― The Skeptic is perfectly willing to suffer, like other men, for life-giving chimeras. He fails to do so: a martyr of common sense

― Objection to scientific knowledge: this world doesn’t deserve to be known

― …amont theologians. Unable to prove what they propose, they are obliged to practice so many distinctions that they distract the brain; their purpose. Imagine the virtuosity required to classify angels into ten or a dozen species! Not to mention God: how many minds has His exhausting “infinity” cast into deliquescence;..

― …But when, in his impatience, he shot me a glance of distain, I resolved then and there to murder the disciple in myself.

― “I am like a broken puppet whose eyes have fallen inside.” This remark of a mental patient weighs more heavily than a whole stack of works of introspection.

― I gallivant through the days like a prostitute in a world without sidewalks.

― As long as boredom is confined to affairs of the heart, everything is still possible; once it spreads into the sphere of judgement, we are done for.

― To control men, you must practice their vices and add to them. Consider the popes; as long as they fornicated, gave themselves up to incest and murder, they ruled their age; and the church was omnipotent. No sooner did they respect its precepts than they declined, and still do: abstinence, like moderation, has been fatal to them; now that they’re respectable, who fears them? Edifying twilight of an institution.

― You cease being young the moment you no longer choose your enemies, when you are content with those you have within arm’s reach.

― You have dreamed of setting the universe ablaze, and you have not even managed to communicate your fire to words, to light up a single one!

― If I believe in God, my fatuousness world be limitless; I would walk naked in the streets…

― That which lives without memory has not left Paradise: the plants still delight in it. They were not doomed to Sin, to that impossibility of forgetting; but we, cases of walking remorse, etc., etc.

― “Lord, without Thee I am mad, yet with The I am madder still!”― Such would be, in the best of cases, the result of a resumption of contact between the failure here below and the failure on high.

― For two thousand years, Jesus has revenged himself on us for not having died on a sofa.

― In periods of peace, hating for the pleasure of hating, we must find the enemies which suits;― a delicious task which exciting times spare us.

― I believe in the salvation of humanity, in the future of cyanide…

― “When I shave,” this half-mad man once told me, “who if not God keeps me from cutting my own throat?” ―  Faith, on other words, would be no more than an artifice of the instinct of self-preservation. Biology everywhere.

― How I’d like to be a plant, even if I had to keep vigil over a piece of shit !

― Some souls God Himself could not save were He to kneel and pray for them.

― When I was barely adolescent, the prospect of death flung me into trances; to escape them, I rushed to the brothel, where I invoked the angels. But with age, you become used to your own terrors, you undertake nothing more in order to be disengaged from them, you become quite bourgeois in the Abyss.―  And although there was a time when I envied those Egyptian monks who dug their own graves in order to shed tears within them, if I were to dig mine now, all I would drop in there would be cigarette butts.



We are all aggregate forms, made up in part of a vast number of discrete parts. Those parts to are made up of discrete parts and this chain of logic seems to run on ad infinitum – just like some atomist version of the infinite god regress. Much the same can be said for the rest of the forms within the natural world; that they are at most aggregates, both in so much as they are composed of smaller parts and that they are themselves smaller parts of a greater whole. The world is not only said to be made up of parts though. There are also the relations between the various parts. Here is the point were we either choose to view these parts as being truly discrete and bound together by an intangible network of relations; or we view these parts as simple sub-wholes, arbitrarily carved out from the greater whole by some function of the intellect.

Popular science tends toward the atomists view, generally because of the descriptive power of that particular system, but it is fundamentally agnostic as to the existence of relation. Relation is to science just another pragmatic way of accounting for and replicating events – just another tool on the shelf, to be dusted off when it fits the purpose at hand. Religion has given little direct attention to the issues related to form and knowledge, while Philosophy and Metaphysics have gone to great lengths to arrive at an answer, only to – in every instance – prove that we know less and less about more and more. Personally, I am of the opinion that we, you and I, have cut ourselves out from the whole mass of existence through an act of subjectivism wrought out by the intellect. As such we are unable to live without arbitrarily categorising everything we encounter – grouping together things that aren’t apart of the “I” of the intellect – the “I” being the most rudimentary example of the in-group versus out-group paradigm.

Perhaps that is why the whole as an expression of a physical infinity, just like the void, is completely incomprehensible to the intellect. Given that we are prone to this subjectivity perhaps a good way for us all to define ourselves would be as follows:

We are all examples of that group, comprising the portion of the whole, which views itself as being distinct from itself.

Surely, if the whole is truly a whole, then it must contain every absurdity.


Not to imagine that your sense of need must imply a binding of souls, but to actively want; to choose to want, and when parted, not to feel as though a need has gone unfulfilled. Rather to feel a dull and constant tug at the soul – as part of you has passed from one place to another, while the remainder must stay and cannot follow.

Love is that sense that comes with choosing to be ripped apart. It is as close as one might come to some kind of conscience annihilation.

I think you’re shit, I just keep you here to pay the rent.

This is a really old post I found on an abandoned blog of mine:

“Morning”, Thomas’ words barely crossed his lips, they simply hung in his mouth through lack of propulsion. He quickly made his way to his desk, switched on his computer’s and set about his business. His mind was blank, his expression was blank and then something happened. He died, his heart stopped beating and he ceased to live. He died somewhere he hated amongst people he did not care for, and was no longer in a position to pay the rent.

His partner was sad at first, though even at initially hearing the news could not fight away the feeling of relief, of freedom. Now she could go about her life unburdened, with no guilt. All in all the event was favourable and although some nights she wonders if she would not have liked for the young man she had once known to be around, she still feels she is better off having things transpired in the way that they had.

Jiji and Buttons, being cats didn’t really notice Thomas’ absence although it did take Katie a long time to keep up with tending to their litter in an orderly fashion. Although eventually she got into the rhythm of this and life moved on as usual for the pair.

Thomas himself was dead and as he did not believe in an afterlife, remained so. Not to say that if he had have believed in an afterlife he would not be just as dead.

His family loved him and missed him as families do.

But no one else. No one in the long-term.

Indeed he offered little and contributed nothing.

Except the rent…

Nice shit I once said.

This is a really old post I found on an abandoned blog of mine:

Over the last few months my memories of you have coalesced in the back of my mind.

Distilling themselves into warm and beautiful thoughts that drip into my consciousness
at the slightest provocation.

I now know the feeling that inspired the phrase bitter-sweet.

You live on in my life through fond and intimate moments once shared.

The Penultimate Question

This is a really old post I found on an abandoned blog of mine:

Lifting the covers over his head David J. Mires lay in an alert state of silence, the wind covered the muffled voices of anyone who might have lurked outside. He strained to listen for footsteps but he found that the harder he listened the louder the marching rhythm of his heart beat began to thud in his ear. He pulled his covers tighter around his head making sure that he was sealed in and secure from the unknown world that resided in the dark. The cavernous void which he occupied slowly filled with an air of suffocation, breathing the same breath over and over the need to breach would eventually force him out of hiding. He was aware that people or things may very well have been standing over him, watching and waiting for him to take his next breath of crisp fresh air.

The threat that night-time brought with it provoked certain trains of thought that inevitably lead to a fixation on mortality. Complete and abject fear, in the anticipation of the feeling of knowing we are going to die. It struck David down with anxiety and a cold confusion regarding the idea of being alive, it seemed pointless and inevitably horrifying.

As a child after suffering through this anxiety for as long as he could tolerate, he summoned his courage and made his way to his parents bedroom. Waking his mother he posed to her a serious question and was struck by the honesty of the answer. ‘you don’t need to worry about that just yet’.

David continued to lay in a state of alertness, his mind was racing again. The wind continued to whisper and murmur and his thoughts drifted to the question that had plagued his youth. Anticipation built and he continued to breathe the same breath over and over. This time there was no way to comfort him, soon he would have his answer.

Mutato nomine et de te fabula narratur

This is a really old post I found on an abandoned blog of mine:

Music hummed in David’s ear, muffling the sound of the train as it clicked and ground along its line. Peering through the carriage window he could see nothing but suburban bricks, weather board and tasteless modern beach side facades.
They should tear it all down.

Suburbia seemed to hem him in from all sides. The soulless sprawl had washed up along the shore of the peninsula obscuring the view.
They should tear it all down.