Coldness and Cruelty & Venus in Furs / Deleuze.

**** originally shared:

“The theory of thought is like painting: it needs that revolution which took art from representation to abstraction. This is the aim of a theory of thought without image.”  (Difference and Repetition / Deleuze)

Masochism: Coldness and Cruelty & Venus in Furs / Deleuze.


Why Deleuze? Deleuze is noticeably reticent on the subject of his personal life, preferring to let his words speak for themselves and cordoning off his affective response: “But what do you know about me, given that I believe in secrecy, that is, in the power of falsity, rather than in representing things in a way that manifests a lamentable faith in accuracy and truth? [. . .] [L]ike anyone else I make my inner journeys that I can only measure by my emotions, and express very obliquely and circuitously in what I write” (“Letter” 11). Further, he dismisses the intellectual activity of biographical speculation by saying, “Academics’  lives are seldom interesting” (“On Philosophy” 137). In his own way, Deleuze argues for the death of the author. Yet, for all of his desire to distance himself from the biographical, Deleuze remains an important theorist for considering embodiment and the fleshiness of living. (A. Musser)

UNTITLED IX

Untitled IX

The languishing
of a candle
melting in a heap,
the wisps of smoke
in circles adrift,
I see you O God
of my personal belief.
Grant me no godhood
which fills me with ME
and nothing else but me.

Let the world not see my fault as yours.
No need to justify your ways O God;
do not go so far as they may call you a fraud
and the bounty you grant may be seen as a load.
The wisps of smoke
have already dispersed;
the candle will die out too.
I want to hear you laugh
loud and clear
and in the clarity of your laughter O God,
may all other sounds drown and not
rise again.

While this body is still going strong
and i clearly hear the gong
take away the quill and the pen O God
and grant me not
the drunken fame
 of the hour, the name.
Soft is the note of thy music, and softer still
is thy voice O God.

God was the name I gave
to that awareness within,
a feeling, the note I heard within,
a constant light
and when too close, a flame, a blazing fire that annihilates.
A constant presence that never leaves
and if asked to prove, a silence prevails.

A Girl In Love

A Girl In Love: Image: Courtesy +tanya dimitrova 2015

The cold winds blew

hard on their faces,

as the sun hid behind the clouds,

and the dust of golden sand blinded her eyes.

The sand that blew with the wind,

blew everywhere,

and in the sheet of dust covering the clouds

as the eyesight dimmed,

she felt his presence

and heard those words:

a sudden declaration of love!

And suddenly again

the wind blew;

suddenly the canopy of the mind flew;

thousands of swallows resting in the heart

fluttered and flew with the wind.

Not knowing if the rapture was sadness or joy

she covered her face in a surprise.

Thousands of swallows broke their cage

and found freedom in the infinite blue

that shone unseen

behind the fog of dust and the screen of the clouds

of gloom.

tanya dimitrova originally shared the image

Found on Google from pouke.org

GOOGLE.COM

Image: Црно-беле фотографије - Page 25 - Фотографија - Живе Речи Утехе

Found on Google from pouke.org

A Girl In Love:  Image: Courtesy +tanya dimitrova

The cold winds blew
hard on their faces,
as the sun hid behind the clouds,
and  the dust of golden sand blinded her eyes.
The sand that blew with the wind,
blew everywhere,
and in the sheet of dust covering the clouds
as the eyesight dimmed,
she felt his presence
and heard those words:
a sudden declaration of love!
And suddenly again
the wind blew;
suddenly the canopy of the mind flew;
thousands of swallows resting in the heart
fluttered and flew with the wind.
Not knowing if the rapture was sadness or joy
she covered her face in a surprise.
Thousands of swallows broke their cage
and found freedom  in the infinite blue
that shone unseen
behind the fog of dust and the screen of the  clouds
of gloom.

Sushama Karnik   (c)
2015

Tabak, tabak, incredible, the sound of the horse's hooves,
the golden days, the olden days of a century old,
come riding past on the horse's back
as the cartwagon pulls through the alleys and the obscure past, where memories are wrapped,
wakes up and peeks from behind a veil.
On a cold and windy December, Old Delhi stirs
reluctantly to the sound of tabak tabak;
stretches her arms and looks at the blinkered horse.
The aroma of coffee in Cafe Coffee Day
mingles with the vapors of Delhi's winter fog.
And the horse and the wagon ride away.
The mind is stirred and I walk past the way
following the magical sound:Tabak, tabak

The Aesthetics of Bones

The Aesthetics of Bones

After the surgery
the doctor came.

I was still groggy
as I saw his beaming face and heard him say,
"Your operation was beautiful!"
And even under the fading etheric state I thought,
"What a horrible thing for a doctor to say!"

Two days later he showed me,
with a weird touch of pride, I should say,
my skeleton of the bones which he had set right,
my shoulders and collar-bone all in place.

He had brought a perfection to the broken down frame;
a rather marvelous job, I must say.
And I smiled secretly at my fear
of seeing what lay beneath my skin,
the exquisite beauty of sheer bones.