“Say: I am real, this is real, the world is real, and nobody laughs. But say: this is a simulacrum, you are only a simulacrum, this war is a simulacrum, and everybody bursts out laughing. With a condescending and yellow laughter, or perhaps a convulsive one, as if it was a childish joke or an obscene invitation. Anything which belongs to the order of simulacrum is obscene or forbidden, similar to that which belongs to sex or death. However, our belief in reality and evidence is far more obscene. Truth is what should be laughed at. One may dream of a culture where everyone bursts into laughter when someone says: this is true, this is real.” — 

Jean Baudrillard

(via heteroglossiainfinite-iterations)




“I touch my left hand with my right hand and my body is both touching and touched, subject and object, a union of the two.” — 

Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Phenomenology of Perception

(via )




Stills from Film Stenopeico by Paolo Gioli, 1974-1989

"This film, as the Vertovian title indicates, was made without a movie camera, more precisely with a device custom made to restore to images freedom from optics and mechanics. The act of substituting my device for a traditional movie camera is part of a project I have continued from that moment on towards weaning myself from a consumer technology, a toxin to pure creativity. This strange movie camera is a simple hollow metal tube, one centimeter thick, two centimeters wide, and a little more than a meter long. At the ends, two reels hold 16mm film. Film is pulled through manually causing alternations of time and space. The images enter simultaneously through 150 holes distributed along one side in proximity to each frame, that come to make up 150 tiny pinhole camera obscuras, also called stenopeic from the Greek stenos = narrow and from the stem op- from orào = to see. These tiny holes, when placed, for example, in front of a standing human figure, can explore it in its verticality but without any movement, which is appropriate since each hole will take in a single point, the detail in front of which the hole lies. One of the most obvious results will be to find oneself confronted precisely with a movement of the camera that never happened; somewhat magical pneumatic flutterings running longitudinally and transversally along a face and body reconstructed through 150 image points.”




“You’d. Verb. Me.” — 

Kathy Acker, Blood and Guts in High School

(via of-saudade)




“Desire is no light thing.” — 

Anne Carson, Autobiography of Red

(via proustitute)




“People have always been divided into two groups: victim and murderers. I don’t know whether it is possible to free oneself from one group and switch over to the other during one’s life. I at least have not yet managed to become a murderer. It’s my fate to be an eternal victim. Naturally this has meant that I’ve become a hypochondriac, just like every victim or real murderer.” — 

Unica Zurn, The House of Illnesses.

(via batarde)




“And yet it disturbs me to learn I have hurt someone unintentionally. I want all my hurts to be intentional.” — 

From Cat’s Eye by Margaret Atwood

(via hush-syrup)




“When I desire you a part of me is gone; your lack is my lack. I would not be in want of you unless you had partaken of me, the lover reasons. “A hole is being gnawed in [my] vitals” says Sappho. “You have snatched my lungs out of my chest,” and “pierced me right through the bones” says Archilochos. “You have worn me down,” (Alkman) “grated me away,” (Archilochos) “devoured my flesh,” (Archilochos) “sucked my blood,” (Theokritos) “mowed off my genitals,” (Archilochos) “stolen my reasoning mind” (Theognis).” — 

Anne Carson, Eros: The Bittersweet.

(via batarde)




“Alone, queen-like. Their disgrace is a matter of course.” — 

Marguerite Duras, The Lover.

(via batarde)




“I warned you clearly
An omnivorous poet,
I eat everything.”
— 

Elvira Riveiro Tobío, from “Carnia Haikai,” trans. Adrian West

(via proustitute)




“I think where I am not, therefore I am where I do not think … I am not wherever I am the plaything of my thought; I think of what I am where I do not think to think.” — 

Jacques Lacan, “The Agency of the Letter in the Unconscious, or Reason Since Freud,” in Écrits: a Selection (trans. Alan Sheridan)

(via heteroglossiajohnshadenumber2)




“Last year I abstained
this year I devour

without guilt
which is also an art”
— Margaret Atwood, Last Year I Abstained


From the series Greenhouse and Beyond by Linda Troeller
"I was getting to know myself and started bringing women subjects with antique clothes, objects and my camera to greenhouses. I wanted to work in this fecund, warm space where there was some protection and freshly tended growth. My personal fantasies seemed to spur on the other’s women’s unconscious sensibilities. They acted out archetypal situations, death wishes, phallic symbols, escape, and communion with nature. I gave one woman a cut off wedding dress at the waist. She responded by jumping up onto a plant shelf and lifted her naked leg and vagina over a giant prickly cactus."

From the series Greenhouse and Beyond by Linda Troeller

"I was getting to know myself and started bringing women subjects with antique clothes, objects and my camera to greenhouses. I wanted to work in this fecund, warm space where there was some protection and freshly tended growth. My personal fantasies seemed to spur on the other’s women’s unconscious sensibilities. They acted out archetypal situations, death wishes, phallic symbols, escape, and communion with nature. I gave one woman a cut off wedding dress at the waist. She responded by jumping up onto a plant shelf and lifted her naked leg and vagina over a giant prickly cactus."




“Part of me has always craved a pain so visible — so irrefutable and physically inescapable — that everyone would notice.” — 

Leslie Jamison, The Empathy Exams.

(via batarde)




“Cities, like dreams, are made of desires and fears, even if the thread of their discourse is secret, their rules are absurd, their perspectives deceitful, and everything conceals something else.” — 

Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino

(via armita)