kagablog

In the afternoon they drove to a small village in the countryside near Bratislava. They parked the car and from there they climbed a steep hill until they reached the ruins of an old castle. For a long time they sat on the broken walls, silently looking out at the saffron coloured rays of the sun falling upon the dark green forest.

What modern philosophers use such areas as an inspiration for their thoughts? And if they don’t, then where do their thoughts derive from? Insulated and caught in a psychotic urban death cell. Deleuze jumps out the window, not even a very inspiring manner of suicide. Debord fires a bullet through his heart in utter solitude. But Nietzsche was different, he knew that he needed to visit powerful places as a source for his know-ledge. His philosophy wasn’t separated from his vitality.

And Bataille - the period when he was inspired by Laure and he took his theory into practice, has been largely ignored. People either pretend that it didn’t exist, or they deal with it with a kind of uneasy nervousness. A philosopher just can’t start performing strange Dionysian rituals in the forests. Official scholars will burn you at the public stake if you turn your back on a sterile academics and try to find a way to live your philosophy in everyday life. But of course in the end this revenge is just a persecution of their own guilt, an awareness of their own weakness. It was clear to Pierre that the expression “intellectual integrity” was a contradiction in terms.

There are those who speak and there are those who live what they speak.

From the ruins he watched as the shadows moved slowly across the scenery. Soon the valley was engulfed in shade. Once again he was struck by the sensation that the earth was positioned between two opposing planets, two destinies- the sun and the moon, between light and death.

A soft white half-moon in a sky of infinite blue, the walls of the shattered castle burst into a fiery orange.

His harsh judgement like an ass-priest, without even a God to back him.

Instead of our anti-hero turning to stone, his love turns to marble and fades away.

One doesn’t enter history by doing something famous at a particular moment, he thought to himself. It isn’t that easy. One only enters history by an action which speaks of the eternal.

Sitting in a cafe he listened to rock music. Rock was another disaster brought on by the 60s. It was the climax of a certain kind of love which burned itself out through a lack of authenticity. Hypocrisy hadn’t reached such a high level since perhaps the Inquisition. The new dark ages, splashed with colour and bright lights.

In the city of Bratislava he saw midgets and giants. He saw people without eyes, legs, arms, and faces. All of this of course held a certain charm for him.