‘‘The dangerous passion for absolute purity.’’
— Anna Kamienska.
– Pascal Quignard.
From the booklet for Jordi Savall – Tous les matins du monde: dix ans après (2001).
Master of the Lindau Lamentation – Man of Sorrow (1430)
‘‘you destroyed a torturable body.’’
– Bertolt Brecht, On the Suicide of the Refugee W.B.
In the mid-thirteenth century, Matthew Paris (poza), an English Benedictine monk, wrote about the early Franciscans:
‘‘[They] carry constantly their books, indeed libraries, in sacks hanging from their necks.’’
din: Neslihan Senocak – The Poor and the Perfect: The Rise of Learning in the Franciscan Order, 1209-1310 (2012). [x]
Lithograph by Auguste Leroux for the 1920 edition of Joris-Karl Huysmans – À rebours (1884).
His contempt for humanity grew fiercer, and at last he came to realize that the world is made up mostly of fools and scoundrels. It became perfectly clear to him that he could entertain no hope of finding in someone else the same aspirations and antipathies; no hope of linking up with a mind which, like his own, took pleasure in a life of studious decrepitude.
— Joris-Karl Huysmans, Against Nature.
Il y eut deux grandes chandelles dans l’histoire et elles ont coïncidé dans le temps: les leçons de ténèbres de la musique baroque, les chandelles des toiles de La Tour.
Les offices des Ténèbres, lors de la semaine sainte, constituaient un rite au cours duquel on éteignait une à une, dans le chant, les lettres hébraïques qui forment le nom de Dieu et, une à une, grâce au souffle d’un enfant en robe rouge et surplis, les bougies qui les représentaient dans l’obscurité de l’agonie.
– Pascal Quignard, Georges de La Tour (1991).
Am citit cartea asta foarte pe nerasuflate, aducandu-mi aminte ca obisnuiam sa spun, cand eram mic, ‘cafulmaj’ in loc de ‘camuflaj’. Rasulfari, deci.
‘‘…you don’t know who he really is, he doesn’t know himself. We are occasions. We consummate life and lose it because in some long-ago time someone, in the desire to unload his cock inside us, was nice, chose us among women. We take for some sort of kindness addressed to us alone the banal desire for sex. We love his desire to fuck, we are so dazzled by it we think it’s the desire to fuck only us, us alone. Oh yes, he who is so special and who has recognized us as special. We give it a name, that desire of the cock, we personalize it, we call it my love. To hell with all that, that dazzlement, that unfounded titillation. Once he fucked me, now he fucks someone else, what claim do I have?’’
– Elena Ferrante, The Days of Abandonment.