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I found her so beautiful in black only because I dreamt of her dead. In fact, it was because I dreamt of her as a widow. What I was in love with in her was the allegory of my own death. But I possessed that allegory physically--which is an original form of the work of mourning.
The funniest thing, all the same, is this 'probably'. The scientific community 'asserts' that something has probably never existed! It is difficult to be more objective.
I just love how dry this is
I have dreamt of a force-five conceptual storm blowing over the devastated real.
I fucking love this guy
The points-based driving license is an excellent formula. But it is scandalous that this outstanding idea should apply only to behaviour on the roads. It ought to be extended to the whole of existence with the creation of an existential licence along these same lines. For every offence against the moral legislation on behaviour, you would be docked existence points. When you had used up all your points, your licence would be withdrawn. In this way, the highways and byways of existence would be safer and, moreover, less crowded, once all those who did not know how to behave were removed. And they would not, in fact, then have any occasion to behave well or badly any more since, by definition, unlike what happens with the driving licence, the withdrawal of the living licence would be a definitive act [...]
oh man
Europe--the very archetype of the contemporary event: a vacuum-packed phantasmagoria. It will have taken place neither in heads nor in dreams, nor in anyone's natural inspiration, but in the somnambulistic space of the political will, of dossiers and speeches, of calculations and conferences--and in the artificial synthesis of opinion that is universal suffrage severely orientated and controlled as a function of the cunning idealism of leaders and experts.
It is a bit like the simulation, deep in the desert, of the Capricorn One expedition to Mars: Europe as virtual reality, to be slipped into like a datasuit. This, perhaps, is the perfection of democracy
weirdly poetic. around the time of the Maastricht Treaty
Not to think any more. To be like a dog. To be in one's head like a dog in a kennel.
this is so dril
'Liberated' East Berlin exports to the West its sexual promiscuity, which thrived in the shadow of dictatorship, and consequently AIDS too, in the form of a contingent of unregulated prostitutes. The West, by contrast, exports its stereo-video-porn to the East, the image and simulacram of sex, of which those in the East were cruelly frustrated. This is more like a mental AIDS. In this way, the two cultures contaminate each other reciprocally after the fall of the Wall of Shame.
Every effort to make me save time by using a computer is criminal. Making me save time--I who do not know what to do with it [...] In any event, time and space are naturally useless, and time saved is as serious as blood spilt.
Cutting through the last umbilical cord that unites us to the real with your own teeth, while your nails dig into your memory in the absolute silence, and the flies endlessly violate our airspace.
It is not an illusion which conceals reality. It is reality which conceals the fact that there is none.
what
Cards, that virtual money, protect us from the vulgarity of cash. But money itself, that artefact of value, protects us from the vulgarity of the commodity. And the commodity, that artefact of desire, protects us from the vulgarity of human relations. In this way, we are marvellously protected.