Hegel: Love Is A Most Monstrous Contradiction

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Adam Martinakis, The Remains Of A Memory

 

 

 

“Love is a most monstrous contradiction. It defies understanding. To love is to give what one does not have and to receive that over which one has no power. To love is to freely negate the stubbornness that is the self and to live in loyalty to an affirmation that can dissolve like morning mist with the first experience of betrayal.”

 

-Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel

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Arthur Hugh Clough: Amours De Voyage

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Takashi Murakami, Kansei Abstraction

  I refuse, reject, and put it utterly from me;
  I will look straight out, see things, not try to evade them;
  Fact shall be fact for me, and the Truth the Truth as ever,
  Flexible, changeable, vague, and multiform, and doubtful.-

  Off, and depart to the void, thou subtle, fanatical tempter!

 

-Arthur Hugh Clough, Amours De Voyage

Baudrillard: Extroversion Without Depth

Antony Micallef

Antony Micallef, Self

 

 

 

“Everyone seeks their look. Since it is no longer possible to base any claim on one’s own existence, there is nothing for it but to perform an appearing act without concerning oneself with being – or even with being seen. So it is not: I exist, I am here! but rather: I am visible, I am an image -look! look! This is not even narcissism, merely an extroversion without depth, a sort of self-promot­ing ingenuousness whereby everyone becomes the manager of their own appearance.”

 

― Jean Baudrillard, The Transparency of Evil: Essays in Extreme Phenomena

Benjamin: Angel Of History

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Paul Klee, Angelus Novus

 

 

 

A Klee painting named ‘Angelus Novus’ shows an angel looking as though he is about to move away from something he is fixedly contemplating. His eyes are staring, his mouth is open, his wings are spread. This is how one pictures the angel of history. His face is turned toward the past. Where we perceive a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage and hurls it in front of his feet. The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed. But a storm is blowing in from Paradise; it has got caught in his wings with such a violence that the angel can no longer close them. The storm irresistibly propels him into the future to which his back is turned, while the pile of debris before him grows skyward. This storm is what we call progress. 

Walter Benjamin, Theses on the Philosophy of History

 

 

Cioran: Volcano Of Our Being

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-Francis Bacon, Study for a Portrait of Lucian Freud

 

 

 

“Nobody would dare look at himself in the mirror, because a grotesque, tragic image would mix in the contours of his face with stains and traces of blood, wounds which cannot be healed, and unstoppable streams of tears. I would experience a kind of voluptuous awe if I could see a volcano of blood, eruptions as red as fire and as burning as despair, burst into the midst of the comfortable and superficial harmony of everyday life, or if I could see all our hidden wounds open, making of us a bloody eruption forever. Only then would we truly understand and appreciate the advantage of loneliness, which silences our suffering and makes it inaccessible. The venom drawn out from suffering would be enough to poison the whole world in a bloody eruption, bursting out of the volcano of our being. There is so much venom, so much poison, in suffering!”

 

― Emil M. Cioran, On the Heights of Despair