January 7
Such violence is punished and its author (!) subjected to the general laws of work imprisoned in a moral world. That grovel in full suppliance which radiates vast monotony, vigor, their dark freedom which yields all resemblance to torment, assails with the same order in the uniform chastisement they continually encounter and leads them to the last degree of corruption in a world where their rages pronounce upon true circumstances with scrupulous pity for misfortune set at liberty. Premature confidence in something of a suffocating passion. Nothing more to hope for, like anybody else. A momentary illusion, full of pretty things, which always turns to hatred. The confirmation of a cynical process, free and dangerous, in the dark and underground, against marauding beasts and the wandering vicious. Their animal status not solved thereby. Every day the uproar, the horror upon seeing crime and indigence united in the sight of strangled prisoners, of swinging chains, of citizens who cherish the confusion of those years. All familiar subjects being hidden momentarily, the soul, so difficult, crushed, prostrate, conscious of nothing, restructures the images, useless images serving the great loss, the sight of evil in the depth of nature, in ancestral habit. It bears what subsists. Its own right carries over, scattered to their follies.
A liberty that rages, no longer the mode of relation that obtains. Found as much in work as not to be rejected, yet with absolute rigor marking the boundary (very precise from the outside) where it would be afraid.
Arrested by the new situation, the greatest liberty and the greatest comfort, delirious illusions, an entire ceremonial nothing circulated by all they may betray and reveal, a passage from a world of censure, to deny its dissimulation reduced to silence. Its silent magic the powers of language without response. The gesture submits quietly to be led, subjugated then encouraged, becoming a form of coexistence, both domination and destination. An absolute value, a temporal halo, performing through the entire bodily machine a light which turns day into night and night into day. Imaginary, deposited by it and only solidified as not yet possible to predict. (Obligatorily interpreted as profanations.)
The secret thousand horrors beneath their helmets.
This harmful hour within which beauty chooses to rise.
Such violence is punished and its author (!) subjected to the general laws of work imprisoned in a moral world. That grovel in full suppliance which radiates vast monotony, vigor, their dark freedom which yields all resemblance to torment, assails with the same order in the uniform chastisement they continually encounter and leads them to the last degree of corruption in a world where their rages pronounce upon true circumstances with scrupulous pity for misfortune set at liberty. Premature confidence in something of a suffocating passion. Nothing more to hope for, like anybody else. A momentary illusion, full of pretty things, which always turns to hatred. The confirmation of a cynical process, free and dangerous, in the dark and underground, against marauding beasts and the wandering vicious. Their animal status not solved thereby. Every day the uproar, the horror upon seeing crime and indigence united in the sight of strangled prisoners, of swinging chains, of citizens who cherish the confusion of those years. All familiar subjects being hidden momentarily, the soul, so difficult, crushed, prostrate, conscious of nothing, restructures the images, useless images serving the great loss, the sight of evil in the depth of nature, in ancestral habit. It bears what subsists. Its own right carries over, scattered to their follies.
A liberty that rages, no longer the mode of relation that obtains. Found as much in work as not to be rejected, yet with absolute rigor marking the boundary (very precise from the outside) where it would be afraid.
Arrested by the new situation, the greatest liberty and the greatest comfort, delirious illusions, an entire ceremonial nothing circulated by all they may betray and reveal, a passage from a world of censure, to deny its dissimulation reduced to silence. Its silent magic the powers of language without response. The gesture submits quietly to be led, subjugated then encouraged, becoming a form of coexistence, both domination and destination. An absolute value, a temporal halo, performing through the entire bodily machine a light which turns day into night and night into day. Imaginary, deposited by it and only solidified as not yet possible to predict. (Obligatorily interpreted as profanations.)
The secret thousand horrors beneath their helmets.
This harmful hour within which beauty chooses to rise.
posted by Scott MacLeod at 1:11 PM
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