derrida, jacques

The death of the other, this death of the other in “me,” is fundamentally the only death that is named in the syntagm “my death,” with all the consequences that one can draw from this. This is another dimension of awaiting [s’attendre] as awaiting one another [s’attendre l’un l’autre], awaiting oneself at death and expecting death [s’attendre soi-même à la morte] by awaiting one another [s’attendant l’un l’autre], up to the most advanced longevity in a life that will have been so short, no matter what.

[j. derrida, from Aporias]

einstein, albert

"All I want to do is learn the way God thinks. All the rest is details."

- a. einstein

newman, charles

the novel “is, in fact, the oldest of abstract forms, the first mixed-media. Its thrust from the beginning has been aleatory—syncretic, not synthetic—held together by the tension of its own formal contradictions, testimony both to the interpenetrability of experience and the necessity for recombinant expression.”

rich, adrienne

"For the Dead"

I dreamed I called you on the telephone
to say: Be kinder to yourself
but you were sick and would not answer

The waste of my love goes on this way
trying to save you from yourself

I have always wondered about the left-over
energy, the way water goes rushing down a hill
long after the rains have stopped

or the fire you want to go to bed from
but cannot leave, burning-down but not burnt-down
the red coals more extreme, more curious
in their flashing and dying
than you wish they were
sitting long after midnight

rilke, rainer maria

"the dew is different, but the stars are still the stars of your nights. and isn’t the whole world yours? for how often you set it on fire with your love and saw it blaze and burn up and secretly replaced it with another world while everyone slept. you felt in such complete harmony with god, when every morning you asked him for a new earth, so that all the ones he had made could have their turn. you thought it would be shabby to save them and repair them; you used them up and held out your hands, again and again, for more world. for your love was equal to everything."

merwin, w.s.

"For A Coming Extinction"

Gray whale
Now that we are sending you to The End
That great god
Tell him
That we who follow you invented forgiveness
And forgive nothing

I write as though you could understand
And I could say it
One must always pretend something
Among the dying
When you have left the seas nodding on their stalks
Empty of you
Tell him that we were made
On another day

The bewilderment will diminish like an echo
Winding along your inner mountains
Unheard by us
And find its way out
Leaving behind it the future
Dead
And ours

When you will not see again
The whale calves trying the light
Consider what you will find in the black garden
And its court
The sea cows the Great Auks the gorillas
The irreplaceable hosts ranged countless
And fore-ordaining as stars
Our sacrifices
Join your work to theirs
Tell him
That it is we who are important

cixous, hélène

"Wherever she loves, all the old concepts of management are left behind. At the end of a more or less conscious computation, she finds not her sum but her differences. I am for you what you want me to be at the moment you look at me in a way you’ve never seen me before: at every instant. When I write, it’s everything that we don’t know we can be that is written out of me, without exclusions, without stipulation, and everything we will be calls us to the unflagging, intoxicating, unappeasable search for love. In one another we will never be lacking."

[hélène cixous, tr. cohen(s); “the laugh of the medusa”]