“The true anguish of the flesh — that in imagination we die, and die, and die again.” — 

Gilbert Sorrentino, Imaginative Qualities of Actual Things

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“The only element that introduces existence in the universe is death.” — 

Georges Bataille, “Friendship" trans. Hager Weslati in parallax 2001, vol. 7 

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“Imagination belongs to the same chain of significations as the anticipation of death. Imagination is basically the relationship with death. The image is death.” — 

Jacques Derrida, Of Grammatology

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frenchtwist:

death death by Alison Scarpulla

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“This story is violently dominated by tears; it is violently dominated by death.” — 

Georges Bataille, “The Culprit.”

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“Hélène Lagonelle’s body is heavy, innocent still, her skin’s as soft as that of certain fruits, you almost can’t grasp her, she’s almost illusory, it’s too much. She makes you want to kill her, she conjures up a marvelous dream of putting her to death with your own hands. Those flour-white shapes, she bears them unknowingly, and offers them for hands to knead, for lips to eat, without holding them back, without any knowledge of them and without any knowledge of their fabulous power. I’d like to eat Hélène Lagonelle’s breasts as he eats mine in the room in the Chinese town where I go every night to increase my knowledge of God. I’d like to devour and be devoured by those flour-white breasts of hers.
I am worn out with desire for Hélène Lagonelle.
I am worn out with desire.
I want to take Hélène Lagonelle with me to where every evening, my eyes shut, I have imparted to me the pleasure that makes you cry out. I’d like to give Hélène Lagonelle to the man who does that to me, so he may do it in turn to her. I want it to happen in my presence, I want her to do it as I wish, I want her to give herself where I give myself. It’s via Hélène Lagonelle’s body, through it, that the ultimate pleasure would pass from him to me.
A pleasure unto death.”
— Marguerite Duras, The Lover


“I am dead. I have no desire for you. My body no longer wants the one who doesn’t love.” — Marguerite Duras, The Lover


“We rehearse for the big death through the little death of orgasm, through erotic living. Death as transfiguration.” — 

Peter Redgrove, Lidia Vianu, Interview With Peter Redgrove

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“I know: she is the one that pleases you “to death” now, to death from pleasure. I know because I know all that you have lived. All that you live.” — 

Laure in a letter to Georges Bataille, from Laure: the Collected Writings.

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“Poetry leads to the same place as all forms of eroticism—to the blending and fusion of separate objects. It leads us to eternity, it leads us to death, and through death to continuity. Poetry is eternity; the sun matched with the sea.” — 

Georges Bataille, Death and Sensuality

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“[L]ove smells like death.” — Georges Bataille, Language des Fleurs (in Visions of Excess)


“Humanity is a petrified fiction hiding from zero, a purgatorial imprisonment of dissolution, but to be stricken with sanctity is to bask in death like a reptile in the sun. God is dead, but more importantly, God is Death. The beginning of the secret is that death is immense.” — Nick Land, The Thirst for Annihilation: Georges Bataille and Virulent Nihilism


“Laughter is a communion with the dead, since death is not the object of laughter: it is death itself that finds a voice when we laugh. Laughter is that which is lost to discourse, the haemorrhaging of pragmatics into excitation and filth.” — Nick Land, The Thirst for Annihilation: Georges Bataille and Virulent Nihilism


“Every consciousness pursues its own death, every love-passion its own end, attracted by a black hole, and all the black holes resonate together.” — Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus


“The man has a theory. The woman has hipbones. Here comes Death.” — Anne Carson, Decreation