Obsession or Two Men at Sea (an excerpt from a text of Paul Valéry translated by Vadim Bystritski) — Before and After Francis Ponge

All day long, I wandered around the city and its port. This simple and plain walking can excite the dreamer. No matter if he accelerates or slows down, it changes nothing for him. Madness, no matter whether good or evil is hiding behind it, will bend to its will the law of equal steps. Only yesterday, I knew the happiness of being divinely transported by what sings and creatively delivers. Now I had to flee my thoughts. I had been bearing it until I was ready to die of frustration, anger, affection, and impotence. My hands were dreaming. Unnoticed, they took, folded and contorted shapes and acts — so crisp and deadly. And at every moment I was everywhere where I was not, and I saw everything replaced by something that made me moan.

Nothing is more creative than an incarnated venomous idea whose sting will push life against life before pushing it out of life. This venomous idea continuously elaborates, retouches and reanimates innumerable stories of hope and despair. These stories by far surpass reality. I’d been walking for some time now, knowing well that being carried by my exasperated soul doesn’t bother the atrocious insect that had inflicted upon my soul a burning wound. The ardent tip had abolished the value of all visible things. That’s why I remained unfazed by the sun and radiant ground I was walking upon. Objects could only contradict or irritate my preoccupations. I noticed the passerby less than their shadows. I could only stare at what was above my head or under my feet. The route led to the sea. A light beam from a lighthouse zoomed over the trees’ voluminous foliage. To my eyes this immense and pure panel of most tender color appeared naked and tense. And while the trees were rocking the breeze and the searchlight was sweeping over their subtle and gilded mass, I heard a voice coming from the bottom of my heart and calling me a fool and lunatic.

L’idée fixe ou deux hommes à la mer.

Je me mis à errer presque tout le jour, à battre la ville et le port. Mais la marche simple et plane ne fait qu’exciter ce qui songe : il la presse, il la ralentit: il n’en est point gêné. La loi des pas égaux se plie à tous les délires, et porte également nos démons et nos dieux. Jadis, j’avais connu le mouvement de l’invention heureuse et le transport d’un corps vivement mené par ce qui chante et s’enfante divinement. Je fuyais à présent devant mes pensées. Je portais ça et là de quoi mourir de dépit, de fureur, de tendresse et d’impuissance. Mes mains rêvaient; prenaient, tordaient; créaient à mon insu des formes et des actes; et je les retrouvait crispées et meurtrières. Et j’étais à chaque instant où je n’étais point; et je voyais, à la place de toute chose, tout ce qu’il fallait pour gémir.

Quoi de plus inventif qu’une idée incarnée et envenimée dont l’aiguillon pousse la vie contre la vie hors de la vie? Elle retouche et ranime sans cesse toutes les scènes et les fables inépuisables de l’espoir et du désespoir, avec une précision toujours croissante, et qui passe de loin la précision finie de toute réalité. Je marchais, je marchais; et je sentais bien que cet emportement par l’âme exaspérée n’inquiétait pas l’atroce insecte qui entretenait dans la chair de mon esprit une brûlure indivisible de mon existence. L’ardente pointe abolissait toute valeur de chose visible. Le soleil ni le sol éclatant ne m’éblouissaient. Les objets contrariaient, irritaient mes soucis; et je percevais les passants un peu moins que leurs ombres sur la route. Je ne pouvais fixer que la terre ou le ciel. Cette route allait à la mer. La lanterne d’un phare étincelait au-dessus des feuillages. Une immense et pure paroi, de la plus tendre couleur, m’apparut nue et tendue à la hauteur de mes yeux, au delà des masses souples et dorées de beaux arbres que berçait la brise de terre; et quelqu’un dans mon coeur me traita de fou et de sot.

Finding the Structure of the World

… I’m thinking structures. I’ve always taken it for granted that in literary writing content and form are intertwined, one. Now I’m examining my belief. Iain says that the writer is a person who finds, rather than makes, structures. “I began to see the pattern of the living city in myth,” he tells me. “If you look, you can see the structures that lie underneath.”

“Is this how we write? By seeing? By finding?” “I think so.”

“Then, to write an epic is to see the structure of one’s city or of one’s life as epic?” …


Extracted from: Ian Sinclair an Interview with Kathy Acker in – ‘Writing as Magic in London in Its Summer: Iain Sinclair and the Crafting of Place.’

Read the full interview at: https://www.closeupfilmcentre.com/vertigo_magazine/volume-4-issue-3-summer-2009/writing-as-magic-in-london-in-its-summer/

Albert Camus — The Vale of Soul-Making

Find meaning. Distinguish melancholy from sadness. Go out for a walk. It doesn’t have to be a romantic walk in the park, spring at its most spectacular moment, flowers and smells and outstanding poetical imagery smoothly transferring you into another world. It doesn’t have to be a walk during which you’ll have multiple life epiphanies […]

Albert Camus on the therapeutic joys and benefits of walking via Albert Camus — The Vale of Soul-Making