kagablog

if one bothers to do that at all - it consumes one
and then one day you wake up and you have become one of the yobs that you always thought you were merely humouring

kaganof

none of it is real
until there is love

“Le succès consiste au fait d’avoir du succès
Pas d’avoir le potentiel du succès”

traduction de dionysos andronis

those who say that life begins at 40
are lying

when you’re a winner you always know the ending because there’s only one ending and it’s always the same ending: you win. it’s the losers that don’t know the ending.

i found out there
are no reasons

our death doesn’t belong to us
it belongs to those we leave
behind

you can’t eat farts cos they’re not food….

you can’t die before your time
whenever you die
it’s your time

a first step to happiness: accepting one’s life for what it is
a second step to happiness: accepting one’s death
a third step to happiness: NOT BEING Miserable
voila!

the atheist howls:
“that something
that i lack
does not
exist”

it is precisely
through all
this new
mediatisation
and the democratisation
of the previously elite
(mass) media that
stupidity has
become a
virtue

if you knew how much you knew
you would know a lot more
than you know, but if you
knew how much you
didn’t know you
would know
almost
everything
there is to know.
you would be a know-it-al(most)-all

here’s something odd:
admitting to one’s
self and the world
that one is gifted
and special only
earns derision
and a million
subtle (and
not-so-subtle)
attempts to pull
one down. when one
admits to being a useless
drunk suddenly everyone wants to help.

you
have
to get
out of your head
and into
the world

“Kaganof went to sleep thinking that he knew all the answers.
When he woke up he couldn’t even remember the questions.”

Kaganof is first and foremost an ironist who eschews what he calls the “heresy of didacticism.” To avoid piloting his audience he has created a new, often puzzling genre that he provisionally labeled as “aphorisibles”.

Since most of the pieces are short narratives, I prefer to call them postmortemist parables – whose meanings are not spelled out. They defy our stereotypes and wishful thinking for the purpose of engaging readers in dialogue. Kaganof assumes his readers to be hypocritical. Kaganof forces us to respond, to examine ourselves, and to scrutinize the narrator. We must remain vigilant. What I call “ethical irony” is the key to penetrating his poses and disguises: moral insensitivity, anger, or even crude misogyny should arouse self-reflection.

Kaganof parodies this Socratic method in the grotesquely comic story The Cockroach. Beneath his alienation the narrator proves to be attuned to his human environment. Still, these postmortemist fables undermine any reassuring interpretations.

Dismantling all forms of complacency and idealism, Kaganof’s “aphorisibles” amalgamate, in a dialogically open-ended literary unit, ambiguity and judgement, kindness and cruelty, anger and generosity, reverie and analysis. There are no definite lessons – only responses. In the end, we must judge for ourselves.

sticks and stones might break your bones
but words can fucking kill you

the average female
is no more boring
than the average male,
but no less either,
unfortunately

rock bottom is the best place to build the future on

depression is a luxury
it is an extreme form
of self-obsession

information, and more particularly, the constant ready access to information, the open flow of information, degrades meaning, depletes analysis, confounds content

There are three kinds of coloureds. Those who think they’re white; those who’ve been duped - against the ontological evidence of their senses - into believing they’re black; and the rest of us – the sane ones - those who know we’re all coloureds.” – Aryan Kaganof

all my stories are true
except for the ones that
really happened