What I expect from you exceeds astute resolutions, desperation or emptiness. You need to let infantilism come out of the excess of lucidity that forgets it. The secret of living is without doubt the naive destruction of what is supossed to destroy our pleasure for living: that is childhood that triumphs without large phrases over the obstacles that resist against desire, that is the unbridled train of game, the hiding place where as a little girl it happened that you lifted up your skirt…
One day, the gods retreated. On their own, they retreated from their divinity, that is to say, from their presence. What remains of their presence is what remains of all presence when it absents itself: what remains is what one can say about it. What can be said about it is what remains when one can no longer address it: neither speak to it, nor touch it, nor see it, nor give it a present.
Truth and narration are separated thus. Their separation is marked by the same line which shows forth in the retreat of the gods. The body of the gods is what remains between the two: there it remains as its own absence. It remains there as the body painted, figured, and narrated: but there is no longer the body as the sacred body.
Do not abandon the bodies, even if the work is to be shunned. Such is the task. Do not abandon the bodies of gods without wanting to call back their presence. Do not abandon the service of truth nor that of the figure, without however, filling up with meaning the gap that separates the two. Do not abandon the world, which becomes always more world, more under the spell of absence, more in interval, incorporeal, without saturating it with signification, revelation, proclamation or apocalypse. The absence of gods is the condition for both literature and philosophy to be in. It is the in-between which legitimates the one and the other, both of which are irreversibly atheological. But they both have the responsibility of taking care of the in-between: of guarding its open body, and of allowing it the possibility of this opening.
«Sight into the unconcealed transpires first, and only, in the disclosive word. Sight looks, and is the appearing self-showing that it is, only in the disclosive domain of the word and of telling perception. Only if we recognize the original relation between the word and the essence of Being will we be capable of grasping why, for the Greeks and only for them, to the divine (τὸ ϑεῖον) must correspond the legendary (ό μῦϑος). This correspondence is indeed the primordial essence of all analogy (homology), the word “ana-logy” taken essentially and literally. Insight into this analogy, in which a dictum, a word, a legend, corresponds to Being, i.e., discloses it by speaking of it as the same in a comparison, puts us into a position to finally provide the answer to an earlier question.
'A-theism,' correctly understood as the absence of the gods, has been, since the decline of the Greek world, the oblivion of Being that has overpowered the history of the West as the basic feature of this history itself. 'A-theism,' understood in the sense of essential history, is by no means, as people like to think, a product of freethinkers gone berserk. 'A-theism' is not the 'standpoint' of 'philosophers' in their proud posturing. Furthermore, 'a-theism' is not the lamentable product of the machinations of 'freemasons.' 'Atheists' of such kind are themselves already the last dregs of the absence of the gods.
But how is an appearance of the divine at all supposed to be able to find the region of its essence, i.e., its unconcealedness, if, and as long as, the essence of Being is forgotten and, on the basis of this forgottenness, the unacknowledged oblivion of Being is elevated to a principle of explanation for every being, as occurs in all metaphysics?
Only when Being and the essence of truth come into recollection out of oblivion will Western man secure the most preliminary precondition for what is the most preliminary of all that is preliminary: that is, an experience of the essence of Being as the domain in which a decision about the gods or the absence of the gods can first be prepared.
John Frusciante’s mystifying musical power has been often marked out, unlike the role that poetic language plays within it. The temporality of poetry is very similar to that of music. As we know, the latter evokes a type of experience that only comes associated to a specific time and place determined by the moment in which we execute it or listen to it. Likewise, poetry appears held out of time as if it would inhabit some kind of eternal present.
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