The only element that introduces existence in the universe is death.
Georges Bataille, “Friendship" trans. Hager Weslati in parallax 2001, vol. 7
my heart is black ink
my sex is a dead sun
Georges Bataille, Oeuvres Complètes. via Nick Land in The Thirst for Annihilation
I love her neither as an angel nor as a recognizable divinity; the vision of the shattered crystal frees the screaming love within me that makes me want to die.
Georges Bataille, “The Culprit.”
This story is violently dominated by tears; it is violently dominated by death.
Georges Bataille, “The Culprit.”
A kiss is the beginning of cannibalism.
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Sans titre (study for Histoire de l’Oeil) by Hans Bellmer, 1946
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she kills me
I divine her
That sand into which we bury ourselves in order not to see, is formed of words…and it is true that words, their labyrinths, the exhausting immensity of their “possibles”, in short their treachery, have something of quicksand about them.
Georges Bataille, L’expérience intérieure, translation by Leslie Ann Boldt
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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I stretched out in the grass, my skull on a large, flat rock and my eyes staring straight up at the milky way, that strange breach of astral sperm and heavenly urine across the cranial vault formed by the ring of constellations: that open crack at the summit of the sky, apparently made of ammoniacal vapors shining in the immensity (in empty space, where they burst forth absurdly like a rooster’s crow in total silence), a broken egg, a broken eye, or my own dazzled skull weighing down the rock, bouncing symmetrical images back to infinity.
Communication for Bataille is first and foremost a bodily affair. Hence the interrogation of the limits of the subject starts from an interrogation of what we could call the “gates” or openings of the body: the mouth, the vagina, the anus and the eyes are for Bataille central places for philosophical investigation, because at these gates, the integrity of the subject is questioned; its limits can be transgressed.
Nidesh Lawtoo, Bataille and the Suspension of Being
Nausea, happiness, they were blending indistinguishably.
Georges Bataille, My Mother.
Intimacy cannot be expressed discursively. The swelling to the bursting point, the malice that breaks out with clenching teeth and weeps; the sinking feeling that doesn’t know where it comes from or what it’s about; the fear that sings its head off in the dark; the white-eyed pallor, the sweet sadness, the rage and the vomiting … are so many evasions.
There is horror in being: this horror is repugnant animality; this does not repel me, on the contrary, I thirst for it; far from escaping, I may resolutely quench my thirst with this horror … for this I have filthy words at my disposal, words that sharpen the feeling I have of touching on the intolerable secret of being … at this moment I no longer doubt that I am embracing the totality without which I was only outside: I reach orgasm.
Georges Bataille, The Accursed Share, translation by Rowan G. Tepper
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