Came to believe
any new concept
creates eventsinthought
that flees the historyofphilosophy,
flies towards a mess
of differences and n-stabilities
that complicate comparisons
"Today is not like a resting place between "yes" and
"no". "No" and rebellion against everything which is not
tears and sunlight. "Yes" to my life, whose future
promise I now feel within myself for the first time.
A turbulent confused year which is coming to an end,
and Italy. I am uncertain of the future but have achieved
total liberty towards my past and toward myself. Here lies
my poverty, and my sole wealth. It is as if I were beginning
the game all over again, neither happier nor unhappier than
before. But aware now of where my strength lies, scornful
of my own vanities, and filled with that lucid fervor which
impells me forward towards my fate."
(Albert Camus, 1937)
and
there
is
no
debt
in
nothingwithoutjoy
posted by name of the rose at 2:32 p.m.
14 Comments:
I came across "l'étranger" in a bookstore recently and thought of picking it up, but hesitated ... interesting quote.
...from his Notebooks, 1935-1945.
There is a photo of Camus with a trenchcoat collar pulled up around his neck. Lips pressed against a cigarette, like Bogart with his hair combed back. Peering through a melancholy elegance with soft eyes betraying "something snapping in his heart like a broken chord".
Died in a car crash at the age of 47, timeofthewriter cut short.
"Everything heralds a glorious day. But with a delicacy and gentleness that one feels will soon be over." (Camus, 1937)
and
" The wonderous poetry that preceeds love."
(Camus 1937)
of algerian descent, no? very little else of his life comes to mind - and even that may be wrong.
Yes. Algerian.
Lost his father at one year old. Grew up in poverty.
Won a Nobel prize.
There is an interview with his daughter in Spike
where she describes him with the following words
"an exile from his country, but still living in its language"
"nothing is true which forces e x c l u s i o n.
From that, you're obliged to accept contradictions if you don't want to reject certain obvious things about life, certain evidence"
"That's the most important thing. I think for an artist what is most important is to touch as many hearts as possible."
http://www.spikemagazine.com/0397camu.php
"That's the most important thing. I think for an artist what is most important is to touch as many hearts as possible."
do you believe this? for yourself?
I can see what you mean about the photo ... there is a certain practical elegance about him ... the overcoat with collar up, the hair slicked back etc and yet, one is drawn to the eyes, which are intense and somewhat revealing.
"That's the most important thing. I think for an artist what is most important is to touch as many hearts as possible."
[do you believe this? for yourself?]...you asked.
hmmmm...I like the comment because I see something tender reflected in it, something that speaks of a daughter's love for her father...which is very different from the love between a son and father...I think her comment points to Camus's desire to cut to the humanity of (his) experience (to touch hearts as opposed to minds/intelligensia/academe), to speak to every man (or as she says, as many as possible, meaning he had "greater proximity to those in poverty", that "he takes on the responsibility of speaking for those who are not given the means or the opportunity") as opposed to an incestuously-exclusive inner circleofelite.
She also says, "And I think a true artist is driven by interior necessities." ...that there is no other choice. Like Giacometti, like Van Gogh, they are the stroke itself.
Yet Camus says that to speak of it is "to write the diary of a novel which remains unwritten by its author".
For me, it is the (love of) process.
Of punctuating the inhalation with a moment of hospitality.
so, when the process is over, and you're exhaling ... do you take pleasure in the product? or is it the (memory of the) process itself that pleases you, when you're looking at the product?
The pleasure is in the process...the alchemy of it, the choreography of it. I suppose there is a certain satisfaction about resolving a piece to its conclusion. ALthough it never really seems complete, a finished piece always gives me the space of objectivity, the distance to stand back and surmise what it was that I actually tried to convey and this then orients me towards what comes next...working in series.
The actual object serves as a reference for what comes next and maybe tells me about myself. Is that pleasure?
However, I will admit to a certain pleasure when standing alone in a gallery space, installing pieces. To place them in a different context for the first time. To arrange them just so. Adjusting the light
the way you might help someone straighten their tie. And then sitting alone with the works assembled together for the first time. Seeing how they fit, what they convey. LIsteningot what kind of silence they create. That's a good feeling.
Is this true for you when you post your writings? Do you take pleasure in seeing your words published? Revisiting them, maybe rethinking them?
I take pleasure in seeing my ideas in 'print' only to the extent that I know that I've captured a feeling or expressed a thought or otherwise marked a moment ... it occurs to me as I think of this that, in essence, I am trying to capture time, perhaps; 'gather ye rosebuds' etc ... the pleasure is in knowing that I've taken a snapshot of myself at a specific point in time, stolen from myself something of myself, so that I can read it later. Again, it is related to time ... and perhaps an unusual game that I'm playing with and/or against myself for the benefit of my present self, past selves and future selves.
I actually don't have an answer to this.
I like the image of adjusting light to a work as you might a man's tie; there is something tender in what's really a simple gesture.
along the same lines, and as an aside, one of the reasons that I enjoyed 'populated solitudes' so much is that, in a form I believed it to be originally, it read:
stroking
the
pace
of
a
few
winged
sighs
... and the idea of stroking time to me, stroking the 'pace' at which a sigh is released ... controlling it, caressing it because it was moving so slowly ... was fascinating; it suggested that time has different speeds ... and this was a slow, interactive speed. I'm not certain if the change was to pace or page or if I simply misread it the first time ... but it was a fascinating idea to me, and changed the sense when I read it as 'page'.
in the same vein, 'Sandwiched in between' fascinated me as well ... because I play the odds, enjoy them ... and was again mesmerized with the idea that btwn the throw of the dice and the time that they touch down and come to rest ... there is a world at play, so much or little en jeu, probabilities and possibilites ... 'there's a car coming and you're in its path: stay, jump left, jump right ...' and everything in btwn ...
time.
Yes, capturing yourself upon a pace in time, to mark moments...to map becomings... but then you also publish your thoughts so there is also something else at play (?)
Your writing has a certain rhythm to it. A flow.
I liked very much that you wrote this:
[I actually don't have an answer to this.]
and of this,
[...was again mesmerized with the idea that btwn the throw of the dice and the time that they touch down and come to rest ... there is a world at play, so much or little en jeu, probabilities and possibilites]
If you enjoy the play of odds, you know the sandwiched space of time with a degree of intimacy. I agree that there are different kinds of time, like the timeless flow of creativity. Otherwise, time is just a watch.
HOwever, if there are infinite parallel universes, everything plays out in every possible manner all at once. Crashing into all directions in the creep and crawl of time poured inbetween the throw and roll is the same kind of time felt just before the crash.
After reading your words, I changed it back. From page to pace. How could I not?
It reads better now.
[Yes, capturing yourself upon a pace in time, to mark moments...to map becomings... but then you also publish your thoughts so there is also something else at play (?)]
yes, I suspect that there is; seeing it in print in an anonymous format is perhaps a way of allowing myself to be 'found', though it's certainly not the goal. not unlike children playing hide 'n seek, though the goal is to remain undiscovered, sometimes there is quiet pleasure in losing, in being found; and though my goal is not necessarily to hide, or to be found, really ... I'm ok if someone stumbles across what I've written; to some extent, and in a certain measure, it validates what I've thought to have someone else read what I've written, if only momentarily.
space of time:
odds, probability, game theory, now or later, left or right, up or down ... or another direction ... it's a choice and a chance and so much more; in life - and with games - I don't necessarily play to win, but play to play, because - unfortunately - it's often more interesting like that.
[wanting to be 'found']
projective hope?
[but play to play]
the jouissance of undecidables?
[because - unfortunately - it's often more interesting like that]
disappointment? disillusionment anaesthetized?
BTW I don'think its selfish to want to document your life, to share your memories or thoughts of them to enrich experience, to heighten sensations, to refresh or solidify memories.
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