|
[24 Jun 2005|10:15am] |
These thoughts are for him, for Roland Barthes, meaning that I think of him and about him, not only of or about his work. “For him” also suggests that I would like to dedicate these thoughts to him, give them to him, and destine them for him. Yet they will no longer reach him, and this must be the starting point of my reflection; they can no longer reach him, reach all the way to him, assuming they ever could have while he was still living. So where do they go? To whom and for whom? Only for him in me? In you? In us? For these are not the same thing, already so many different instances, and as soon as he is in another the other is no longer the same, I mean the same as himself. And yet Barthes himself is no longer there. We must hold fast to this evidence, to its excessive clarity, and continually return to it as if to the simplest thing, to that alone which, while withdrawing into the impossible, still leaves us to think and gives us occasion for thought.
(No) more light, leaving something to be thought and desired. To know or rather to accept that which leaves something to be desired, to love it from an invisible source of clarity. From where did the singular clarity of Barthes come? From where did it come to him, since he too had to receive it? Without simplifying anything, without doing violence to either the fold or to the reserve, it always emanated from a certain point that yet was not a point, remaining invisible in its own way, a point that I cannot locate—and of which I would like, if not to speak, at least to give an idea of what it remains for me.
To keep alive, within oneself: is this the best sign of fidelity?
Jacques Derrida, The Work of Mourning
|
|
|
[12 May 2005|12:12pm] |
mercalia had thrown down her thesis, he said, had gone blue-collar. travel, cowboy boots, money, the gasp of air brakes, four speakers in the cab and the uptown string quartet on the tape deck. enrolled in long-distance truck driving school. graduated summa cum laude. the overland express in sausalito hired her.
[e. annie proulx]
|
|