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gnossienne · 1 year

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Hélène Cixous, Three Steps on the Ladder of Writing (1993)

#on art #art as restoration of the self #cixous #literature

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thirdity · 4 months

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Writing, in its noblest function, is the attempt to unerase, to unearth, to find the primitive picture again, ours, the one that frightens us.

Hélène Cixous, Three Steps on the Ladder of Writing

#writing #words #language #expression #creativity #quotes #Cixous #Hélène Cixous #Three Steps on the Ladder of Writing

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loneberry · 1 year

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“...at the end of the book, she had learned a secret from it: which is that ‘having’ paradise isn’t impossible; because ‘being in paradise’ doesn’t mean having your residence there; it means knowing that you can return there. ... It’s a state of joy which prolongs itself throughout the whole life of those people who have the strength to be wild...

Very near and very hard to approach in reality. Because it’s not paradise that one loses; it’s the desire to be there, which war succeeds in making us forget. For the state of being-in-paradise, which seems so simple when one is there, this state requires the first great intelligence, the kind that thinks and understands on the other side of forgetfulness and of things neglected by thought, before any absent-mindedness; requires the ultrasensitive intelligence of proximities; capable of discovering the treasures of life lying in store under the window, within our reach, within our embrace; requires the first, the prime intelligence, the universal, the very-fragile kind, with its very broad, feathery antennae covered with sensory cells which enable it to detect the sources of the very great joys that are quivering in the immediate invisibility.”

—Hélène Cixous, Lemonade Everything Was So Infinite

#cixous #hélène cixous #literature #paradise #grace #mercy #merci #mysticism #everyday mysticism #Kafka #lemonade everything was so infinite

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st4rg1rl2002 · 21 days

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"him whom she awaits she is fleeing from"

#cixous

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thepolishlynx · 2 months

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Overlord H - Cixous is beautiful [Part 22]

#youtube #Overlord #Overlord H #Winterfire #Visual Novel #Fan Game #Anime #Indie #Indie game #Indie dev #Indie developer #Indie Visual Novel #Maid #Cixous

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strykerlancer · 24 days

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— Hélène Cixous, from “Hyperdream.”

#Hélène Cixous #Hyperdream #words #literature #poetry #quotes #out of my collection #lit #abyss of words #quote

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shisasan · 3 months

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Hélène Cixous, Stigmata Reading in Painting.

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sicknessinmotion · 7 months

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I RETURN TO MY FATHER LIKE A DOG: ON FATHERS AS UNLOVING GODS.

chuck palahniuk // @angelprotocol // gillian flynn // hélène cixious // halsey // ocean vuong // smoke signals.

#on fathers #poetry #quotes #web weaving #webweaving #.w #words #excerpts #chuck palahniuk #gillian flynn #hélène cixous #halsey #ocean vuong #smoke signals

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commetombeunarbre · 1 year

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In one another we will never be lacking.

#Cixous #Laugh of the Medusa

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asoftepiloguemylove · 2 months

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GOD LOVES YOU, BUT NOT ENOUGH TO SAVE YOU // GOD AND SUFFERING

Andrew Joseph White Hell Followed With Us // Elizabeth Lindsey Rogers Questions About the Father // Brittany Broski Why I Left the Christian Church // Clarice Lispector (tr. Katrina Dodson) "The Departure of the Train," The Complete Stories // @/katabasiss // "Shiizakana," Hannibal (2013-2015) dir. Michael Rymer // Xooang Choi // Ocean Vuong "Prayer for the Newly Damned," Night Sky with Exit Wounds // The Vaccines Wetsuit // Mitski I'm Your Man // Fall Out Boy Just One Yesterday // Hélène Cixous Readings: The Poetics of Blanchot, Joyce, Kafka, Kleist, Lispector, and Tsvetaeva

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gnossienne · 2 years

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Of what secret lights are we made? Of what densities?

Hélène Cixous, Stigmata: Escaping Texts

#there is a crack in everything #human frailty #literature #cixous

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thirdity · 7 months

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Write! What? Take to the wind, take to writing, form one body with the letters. Live! Risk: those who risk nothing gain nothing, risk and you no longer risk anything. In the beginning, there is an end. Don't be afraid: it's your death that is dying. Then: all the beginnings. When you have come to the end, only then can Beginning come to you.

Hélène Cixous, "Coming to Writing" and Other Essays

#writing #risk #language #creation #creativity #art #quotes #Cixous #Hélène Cixous #Coming to Writing

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loneberry · 1 year

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After I finished making a midterm exam, Molly and I went to a secret Japanese tea house. It appears on no map, has no hours, no sign. It is as though it exists, somehow, outside this world. When you enter, you give your phone to the owner to lock in a box for the duration of your visit.

We stayed for nearly 6 hours—sat reading poems, chatting with the eccentric owner about Sufism and the ocean and his peculiar flower arrangements consisting of a mix of living and dead plant matter.

How can I describe it, the strange sensation of being alive, late at night in those dim lights, surrounded by beauty. I got up to look at the wares, inhaled the hinoki essential oil—Max Richter was playing as I stared at blank notecards and imagined writing someone a heartfelt note, writing bravely, from that bewitched and emotionally authentic space I was in. I felt a sudden pang. It was the moment opening, with all its counterfactuals, what could have been, what will never be—how deeply I could feel, in that instant, the texture of my grief.

When I’m in the hustle and bustle of my busy and now quite ordinary life, I think, if only I could really hear the voice that says,

“Jackie, it was not for this that you were created.”

Then I would give away all my things and spend my days in prayer.

Susan Howe writes that for Sarah Edwards, “all works of God are a kind of language or voice to instruct us in things pertaining to calling and confusion.”

“...each soul comes upon the call of God in his word. I read words but don’t hear God in them.”

Did I pray, how long in supplication, with my inner eye fixed on that phantom, the phantom with her eyes stitched shut, limbs covered in oak moss. A dream of the opening of the eyes, the inert limbs now lithe and moving toward you. Ordinary objects and sounds are suddenly strange. That’s when the phantom slips through, when I hear the birds singing in a tree...

The blooming moment. Retrospectively, I am convinced that its condition of possibility was the confiscation of my phone, that it is only when we are unplugged that we can sense these holy emanations.

How calm we were, leafing through the book of Japanese death poems (jisei) in the tea house. What will be the last words I write before dying? For all I know, it could be this, or this. I remembered the dying words of George Mackay Brown: “I see hundreds and hundreds of ships sailing out of the harbour.” I remember the fragments Kafka wrote while dying, “lemonade everything was infinite,” his concern for the peony, the improvised performance—the incantation—I did at the Zinc Bar in 2015 using Kafka’s dying words, how J wept in the audience, then wrote me about the snow:

I am the guy, by the way, who said hi on the street, in the snow, after your reading. … I did indeed cry after your Kafka-Cixous incantation, partly because that phrase has been magic to me my whole life. I read Cixous' novel by that name when I studied with her and Derrida in my twenties... Her seminars were amazing. One day, funnily enough, she gave a seminar on snow in Proust, simply because snow was on the ground in Paris. For all sorts of reasons your whole reading shook and tenderised me deeply. I suppose, with the snow through the tinted glass outside, it will forever be, my imagination of what you read will forever be blanche niege texte.

(standing on the corner in manhattan with that powdery snow i was looking at the flowers when you walked past actually, turned, swivelled, i had needed to get out of the bar because the reading had touched me so much . . . i then went and wandered in the snow for an hour, till i happened on a subway, and back to my friend's in brooklyn . . . i have been thinking more today about how effective your reading was to me. it sort of made me feel i could only read poetry from now on if i was embodied, since what convinced in your reading beyond the obvious was the adjustments to us, the audience, the interruptions, the ability to break off, and then the actual concentration because of the embodiments . . . at most poetry readings i am constantly thinking 'i am at a poetry reading' and can't really get beyond the poem-as-poem-at-reading. when you read i was suddenly completely focused. the bodily resonation was right, a recuperation of grace, so i could listen. like before the internet or something. it returned me all the way to early cixous and feminine writing and what that could still mean, a writing beyond master-works and over-sociality of tact, agua viva, what korine might call 'mistakist' heaven. it was my first time in new york. my last night. stop. for now. cut the flowers.)

#poetry #literature #dreams #jisei #tea #ichimu #cixous #kafka #George Mackay Brown #Susan Howe #proust

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pleasereturntoheaven · 5 months

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