“He could do nothing but twist his moustache, drink, and chatter the most inept nonsense that can possibly be imagined.”
Please listen whilst you read on : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N7-PNH0IDpg&list=RDvLt98WxrYAw&index=6
Originality in form is beginning to take a corner of sharp intention in face. Nature is no longer written in the blood. This becomes ever more apparent in the deluge of faces that speak naught. It is not a mere glint or a flicker of navy in the eye. It is not a moustache of pomp or a beard of grace. We have entered into the abyss from which we are so far removed. From our own standing precipices we look up into the drowning sky. We must oblige mere acts of stage in order to gain some semblance of a now lost level of character. It can only be described now in these times as an errand in ineffectuality.
“Listen, Stavrogin: to level the mountains is a good idea, not a ridiculous one. I’m for Shigalyov! No need for education, enough of science! There’s sufficient material even without science for a thousand years to come, but obedience must be set up. Only one thing is lacking in the world: obedience. The thirst for education is already an aristocratic thirst. As soon as there’s just a tiny bit of family or love, there’s a desire for property. We’ll extinguish desire: we’ll get drinking, gossip, denunciation going; we’ll get unheard-of depravity going; we’ll stifle every genius in infancy. Everything reduced to a common denominator, complete equality. ‘We’ve learned a trade, and we’re honest people, we don’t need anything else’–that was the recent response of the English workers. Only the necessary is necessary–henceforth that is the motto of the whole globe. But there is also a need for convulsion; this will be taken care of by us, the rulers. Slaves must have rulers. Complete obedience, complete impersonality, but once every thirty years Shigalyov gets a convulsion going, and they all suddenly start devouring each other, up to a certain point, simply so as not to be bored. Boredom is an aristocratic sensation; in Shigalyovism there will be no desires. Desire and suffering are for us.”
What allotments are these, that we have now engaged on play in play with no name beings…thin yet not clear and fleeting in form.
What feelings are these that escape in these moments, never to be found for most is now lost. Every second…the soul fragments are led most remotely into the void. We forgo privately for the illusions of what may be. Never to escape the thought, that nothing ever is.
“in the newspapers I read a biography about an American. He left his whole huge fortune to factories and for the positive sciences, his skeleton to the students at the academy there, and his skin to make a drum so as to have the American national anthem drummed on it day and night.”
There is life in these faces…there is grief behind the eyes. There is longing in the soul. The markers of human feeling written quite plainly in the visage.
Please consider a moment in time to reflect on all that was lost…the remaining fragments of soul which remain and the in-between illusions to justify reason for unoriginality in form. What manifests itself in the soul…what cannot be touched, cannot be hidden to the outside world for those who choose to see.
I hunt for the lot, for I am nothing.
All Rights Reserved © mmartel∞