Fiction - Hyssop and Hermetics, The Absinthe Literary Review

Sekret Suicide
an essay/philosophical meditation on Death and Georges Bataille
by Adrian Gargett


“Despise not the ash, for it is the diadem of thy heart, and the ash of things that endure.”

– Morienus, Rosarium

So silent. So still. So cold. Alone with an immense vacant and aching dread. The whole room for my thoughts. Nothing but myself and what I think, and what I fear. I listen to the tick of an unseen clock marking the moments of time seemingly long past. It takes me and it engages me and it moves me and it extends me like the calculated slow swing of a pendulum, mesmerizing and insane. Everything is contained in a second which is either consummated or not consummated. The World has stopped. It has stopped and it is not going forward, the same way that my life has stopped and is not going forward. It is not going forward or backwards or anywhere. It has just stopped. Stopped …

The clock holds me nowhere. Nowhere. There is nothing else but this Now in the flat depths of night. I sit at the table alone, attentive and existing, drinking iced water. I should not be here or anywhere. I should not be breathing, occupying this space. I should not have this moment. I should not have this chance. And yet I am here, I have it. I won’t have it again, this moment, and this chance. They are the same thing, and they are mine if I want them. Now and for as long as I am here. They are both vital and ephemeral. Don’t abandon them. A moment, a chance, a life, all in the veiled tick of a clock holding me nowhere. My heart is beating. The walls are pallid and soundless. I am existing.

Dying: the final shock of pain or nothingness that is the price we pay for everything. Could it not be the sweetest thrill, the only salvation we can attain, the only true moment of self-knowledge?

Struggling. Awake? The bass thump of my pulse echoing through my skull, blotting out all other sensations. Teeth chattering anxiety. Cold as Death. Pushing at the bed-sheets. An aching cold, interminable as marble. My mind, frosted with drugs, iced-up. A drift of empty snowlands, whiting-out memory. Cross-eyed, tormenting consciousness. A blinding twister, circling spirals. Shall I? Will I? Drooling Death-wish.

Fate is strong. Fate, Fated, Fatal. I resign myself to Fate. Blind Fate. In the hospital it is as quite as a Tomb. The nurse fights to find a vein in my right arm. We give up after five attempts. Would you faint if someone stuck a needle in your arm? I’m used to it, but I still shut my eyes. The drip stings. A lump swells up my arm. Out comes the drip. An electric shock sparks up my arm. This room is filled with the echoes of many voices. Who passed time here? Voices unlocked from the white and green of long dried paint.

Going back over the course of my life. I see myself slowly reaching a limit. With anguish waiting for me on all sides, walking a narrow tightrope. The pain waits for me, no matter where I turn. Inside I’m dying. I don’t really know how I got here or where it leads. I’m afraid of change, of Death, of life, of beginnings and ends. I don’t know what I’m looking for or what I want. I feel so terribly alone. There are people out there, some good, some bad, that claim to know me, but really they know nothing of me. They only see what I want them to see. I’m afraid that if they knew the real me, they would also be afraid. “To thine ownself be true” means nothing. It is a constant reminder of the things I have failed to do, the life I’ve wasted. I can cry for help but no one hears. There seems no hope for me, no release from this constant pain and fear. I don’t ask for pity or sympathy. I feel that maybe sometimes I need to experience this pain so that I can properly exist. Who am I and where does this lead?

My world is in fragments, smashed to pieces so fine I doubt I will ever reassemble them. The God that rules over the debris is Silence; you can hear him in the wind that chases through the ruins. In the silence I’m impelled to speak, to remind myself of my existence, violating the God …

Oh, my black soul, “Now thou art summoned by sicknesse,” Death’s herald and champion.

If life were a discourse Death could wait, but dreams break-down, there is repetition. Georges Bataille’s writing does not prophesize Death; it cracks seismically under the pressure of oblivion. Each of its waves are splintered recollections of the essence of Death. Each beginning again–as such and regardless of its intrinsic significance–moves under the force of an unforeseen dying. Waves have no memory. They respond anew each time to the incessant ebb that releases them in darkness, beating to a pulse that evades them. The oblique single-hiss of Death is discursively obligated to a perceptive inferiority but this does not erase the multiple beginnings again, indicating the structure of each retreat into silence. “Something inside me undid itself” (*Bataille IV p.342), says the anonymous narrator of a short fragment beginning: “At the start of the degeneration…”

Bataille describes all physical and didactic progress upon the Earth to be consequences of the advance of Death, because it is only in Death that life turns out to be a deep resonance of the sun, appreciating its inexorable fate, which is absolute silence. It all starts for us with the sun, the cave; the Labyrinth has been brought into being by it. In general the source is light. Our bodies have avidly consumed the sun before we even opened our eyes, in that our eyes are pure set beads of the sun before merging with its flaming discharge. The tide of addiction is utterly lucid and fatal: “The afflux of solar energy at a critical point of its consequences is humanity” (Bataille VII p.14). The eye is not a starting point but an expenditure. The essential exercise of life is not to create or exist but to utilize the inestimable torrent of resources (energy) showering down upon it. “The world … is sick with wealth.” (Bataille VII p.15)

“I represented the eye at the summit of the skull to myself as a horrible volcano in eruption, with exactly the murky and comic character which attaches to the rear and its excretions. But the eye is without doubt the symbol of the dazzling sun, and the one I imagined at the summit of my skull was necessarily inflamed, being dedicated to the contemplation of the sun at its maximum burst (éclat)” (Bataille II p.14).

There is no separation between desire and the sun: sexuality is not psychological but cosmo-illogical. “Sexual activity escapes at least during a flash from the bogging-down of energy, prolonging the movement of the sun.” (Bataille VII p.11) A cosmological theory of desire surfaces amidst the vestiges of physicalism. This presupposes that idealism, spiritualism, dialectical materialism, and equivalent options have previously been invalidated in an initial and thoroughly a-theological action. Libidinal materialism, or the theory of unconditional–non-teleological–desire, is nothing but a burn-mark from the interpretational opinion of physicalistic preconception.

Libidinal matter is that which opposes an association or effect of collective transcendence counter to time, and proceeds from the deep intransigence of physical substance without the alternative resort to dualistic, idealistic, or theistic notions. It entails a process of metamorphosis which is concurrently free of agency and non-divisible from the causal chain. This process has been variously named, but following Schopenhauer, Nietzsche and Freud it may conditionally be characterized as “drive.” Drive is that which elucidates, rather than deducing, the cause/effect pair of classical physics. It is the dynamic introduction of effectiveness, and is thus proto-physical. This indicates that drives are the convulsive dynamics of matter proceeding natural law. The “science” of drives, or “libidinal economy”, is thus primary for physics, as Schopenhauer thoroughly explains. A libidinal energetics is not a renovation of premeditated theories of desire, of desire realized as want/lack, as transcendence, as dialectic. Such thinking is better left to the theologians. It is, more accurately, a transformation of thermodynamics or a conflict over the substance of “energy.”

The thermospasm is actuality as pure chaos. It is the place we all originated. The Death-drive is the wish to go back there. Thermospasm is a scream, annihilating intensity, a zenith of improbability. Energetic matter maintains a “tendency.” This transfer is an everlasting decomposition of energy or dissipation of difference. One-way is the accumulation of negentropy, uneven distribution, and thermic disequilibrium. Its opposite direction encompasses statistical disorder, indifference. The second law of thermodynamics relates that disorder necessitates a requisite increase, that fractional increases in neg-entropy still represent a comprehensive increase in entropy. Life is capable of moving away from Death only because it multiplies or reproduces it, and the reproduction of disorder is always more advantageous than the divergence. Decomposition profits out of life. Each or any mode of sequence is inevitably anomalous within the regular economy, a simple complication or deviation in the relentless Death-flow, a line in the informational assemblage, energy surging to disequilibrium, dissipation. There are no closed systems, no secure codes, and no salvageable origins. There is only the thermospasmic shock-wave, predispositional energy flux, decay of energy.

Life is expelled from the energy-bank and sprayed as a coating on chaotic zero, a shaping of Death. This coating is also a maze–a complex exit back to the energy base-line–and the intricacy of the maze is life trying to break out from itself, being nothing but escape from itself, from which it tries to leave: maze wandering. That is to say, life is itself the maze of its route to Death; a mesh of webbings which outline an independent divergence from blank.

Bataille understood all natural and cultural advances upon the Earth to be consequences of the evolution of Death, because it is only in Death that life becomes an echo of the sun, appreciating its manifest destiny, which is pure loss. This basic conception founds a materialist theory of culture free from the idealist residues of representational Marxist and psychoanalytical traditions. Culture is directly economic, not because it is crossed by ideological currents that a Cartesian pineal gland or dialectical miracle decodes from lucidity into praxis, but because it is the appointment of literary potentialities that relentlessly threaten to convert the energy expended in its inscription into an unredeemed negative at the level of production. Poetry, Bataille asserts is a “holocaust of words.”

The wind blows from the east bringing an acid hail that falls from the leaden sky. The air stutters, tic tic tic, rattle of death-watch beetle on dark roofs. They say the Ice Age is coming, the weather’s changing. A thin yellow pus drains through the institutions, mutating malevolent bureaucracies large as dinosaurs, which prowl the pavements of our regressive neighborhoods. We stand mute watching children devoured in their prams. Tomorrow the dinosaurs move on. No one ever saw them, invisible as the atom.

The old adage from George Santayana that those who don’t learn from history are doomed to repeat it is a lie. There is no history; everything that we are is eternally with us. Our question is therefore what can save us from our crazy insistence on spreading the blight in ever widening circles?

Dante’s Seventh Circle, bleeding trees waiting for Judgment Day, where we can all hang ourselves from our own branches. We are not sinners because we sin but we sin because we are sinners, or more prosaically we are not evil because of the evil we do but we do evil because we are evil. But then what choices do we have? It’s not as if we have any options. Our addiction is evil, and the propensity for this evil lies in our weakness before it. Kierkegaard was right: there is an awful precipice before us, but he was wrong about the leap. There is a difference between jumping and being pushed. You reach a point where you are forced to face your own needs and the fact that you can’t terminate the situation settles on you with full force. It is not “cogito ergo sum,” but “dedita ergo sum, (echo), ergo sum.” Philosophy is propaganda; there is always an attempt to influence the object to change its view of things. The real question is what is the philosopher’s impact on other egos, transcendent or otherwise? If we eliminate the verb we eliminate meaning, the predicate defines the noun’s role in being. That is why we must insist on a discernable didacticism in the works of the philosopher, it belies his transcendence, his independence. Essence is revealed through praxis, the philosophers words, ideas and actions cannot be separated from his value, his meaning, and the impact on other egos.

Nietzsche’s thought of the Death of God is sacrificial, orgiastic, and festive. Bataille asserts the Christian belief must pass over not into a content scientific utilitarianism, but into the ecstasies of unrestrained wastage. The loss of God is the loss of self, the ultimate shattering of the anthropic image, so that the perdurable ego of servile humanity is melted into the solar energy flow. Bataille is not remotely interested in being saved; he wants only to touch the extreme, writing that “I have wanted and found ecstasy” (Bataille V p.264), an ecstasy that is the experienced loss of being. This is not a matter of dying, but of surviving–momentarily–only through excess, a chance, without assurance, and without restricting the dissipative tide.

“Being is given to us in an intolerable surpassing of being, no less intolerable than death. And because, in death, this is withdrawn from us at the same time it is given, we must search for it in the feeling of death, in those intolerable moments where it seems that we are dying, because the being in us is only there through excess, when the plenitude of horror and that of joy coincide.” (Nietzsche III p.11-12).

The Death of God is a religious event, a transgression, an experiment in damnation, a stroke of anti-theistic warfare–but this is not to say that it is ultimately a crime. Hell has no concern with our debauched moral currency. To confuse reactive engagements with sin as true expeditions in damnation is Christian superficiality, the Dantean error of imagining that one could perhaps earn oneself an excursion in Hell, as if the infernal was also a matter of justice. Our crimes are mere faltering steps on the path to ruin, just as every projected “Hell on Earth” is a strict exemplar of idolatry. Transgression is not a criminal action but a tragic fate; the intersection of an economically programmed apocalypse with the religious anti-history of fiction. It is the inevitable occurrence of impossibility, which is not the same as Death but neither is it essentially different.

The depths have become infernal, undeniably so, quite irrespective of the fairy-tales we are still told. “Flames surround us, the abyss opens beneath our feet” (Bataille III p.95) reports Bataille from the edge of the impossible, “an abyss that does not end in the satiate contemplation of an absence” (V p.199) because its border line is the charred ruin of even the most sublimed subjectivity. “I have nothing to do in this world” he writes “if not to burn” (IV p.17) “I suffer from not burning … approaching so close to death that I respire it like the breath of a lover” (V p.246).

If Death can still bite it is not because it maintains some splinter of potency supposedly proper to the Object, but because it remains uncaged by the inhibition objectivity entails. Death alone is unreservedly on the loose, screaming as the dark medium of storms and epidemics. After the merciless abstraction of all life the blank savagery of real time remains, for it is the reality of abstraction itself that is time: the desert, Death, and desolator of all things. Bataille writes of “the ceaseless slippage of everything into nothing.” (Bataille V p.137), a Nietzschean zero-becoming which has its metaphor in a bird of prey, for which every object is a lamb.

“Being attains the blinding flash in tragic annihilation. Laughter only assumes its fullest impact on being at the moment when, in the fall that it unleashes, a representation of death is cynically recognized. It is not only the composition of elements that constitutes the incandescence of being, but its decomposition in its mortal form.” (Bataille I p.441)

Initiated by autonomous disparity, the human creature is a cross-breed of sentience and pathology or of divided consistency with matter. Recognizing that their kinship with nature sucks them into psychosis and Death humans valorize their autonomy, whilst simultaneously despising the surge of desire that draws them down towards fusional dissolution. Morality is as a result, the refined necessity to autonomous integrity which marks as evil the drive to skinless contact and the assimilation of bodies.

These are night thoughts formed by walking in the rain after two thousand years of Christianity. I can’t get out of my mind what a discrepancy there is between ideas and living. A permanent dislocation we try to cover. Ideas cannot exist alone in the vacuum of the mind. Ideas are related to matter.

How gentle and comforting if Death were really nothing but the end, a ceasing to be. But is there such a thing as pure Death? If there was, we would never be aware of it, because it is only in overextending itself that Death bequeaths a narrative. There is possibly no greater confusion than mistaking “our” Death with non-being. Is it because we want to believe in the fidelity of our substance that we formulate this curious equation? If this is the case we should be embarrassed at our deceit. The reality is unambiguous; it is plainly not truthful that Death leaves matter satisfied. In principal it is a momentary refreshment, a cool black wave for matter to bask in like a reptile, a point of quiescence before we run back into the paroxysmal dissipation of life. Perhaps we feel our deaths should be more satisfying, that they should be important enough to satiate the most numbing thirst. It is almost as if we still trust in the faithful resurrection of the flesh. How unbecoming then that matter remains irritated after shaking us from it, that it is still fervent, that even before our mourners have forgotten us it is entertaining the maggots. Across the eons our mass of hydro-carbons enjoys a veritable harem of souls.

We are still resolute in the belief that we have one specific and decisive Death awaiting us, a Death customized to the dimensions of a Soul. But if a body is a river of Death, what makes us so confident a “Self” isn’t one? Is it likely that “We” should really stay the same? It is the most basic common sense to believe in our existence of course, but then, would it really be expedient for the body to admit to the ephemera in its nerves that it has so little attachment to them?

We imagine we are different from other animals because we can envisage our Deaths, when we know no more than they do about the condition Death brings. Everything informs us that it represents extinction, but we hate to consider what that means. The reality is, we are not disturbed by the evanescence of time because we understand Death, we are alarmed by Death because we refuse to accept the transient quality of time. If other animals do not fear Death as we do, it is not because we have knowledge about something they do not. It is because they are not concerned by time.

The drip ticks out the seconds, the source of a stream along which the minutes flow, to join the river of hours, the sea of years and the timeless ocean.

My life recommences. The light-hearted, familiar shock of it as it hits me. Dazed drifting downstream.

The darkness comes in with the tide.

Death is not mine alone. We all die incessantly. The little time that separates us from emptiness has the flimsiness of a dream. If you stopped, for just a short moment, the complex, the gentle, the violent movements of worlds will render your Death a shimmering flicker.

The word Death has the same fusion of indicative energy and conceptual deficiency as a sign removing a speeding restriction–it would allocate a concept only if this semiotic transition were treated as the representation of absolute velocity rather than a stimulation to free-flow. Dying is the departure from a traffic-system, but this exodus is not transcendentally resolved by a pure destination. The slipping-away of an animal into Death is no less elaborately positive than the arterial pulse pumping blood from its heart. We are all fictional suicides, some impatient, some less so, but all indicating by our diligence the taciturnity of Death. In effect Death is nothing in immanence, but due to the fact that it is nothing, no being can ever be truly separated from it.

Out of a dark, unstitched wound, a basin of abominations, a cradle of black-thronged cities where the music of ideas is drowned in cold fat, out of strangled utopias emerges a wraith-like presence, a being divided between beauty and ugliness, between light and chaos, a wraith who is Satan himself and a battered angel. When I look down into the wound I see an equation sign, the world in balance a world reduced to zero. Not a Western mathematical zero as such, but an original zero, Arabian zero, the sign from which springs endless mathematical worlds, derived in a non-monotheistic culture, its character of indivisibility without unity, its valorization of technocratic rationalism, and its perfect coexistence with Death. Zero, derived like “cipher,” from the Arabic “zephirum”, the non-speculative other of unity, bringing it into affinity with the feminine and consequently at odds with the notions of unity, solidity, and identity associated with the Judeao-Hellenic privilege of One.

Life is a scream which one unyieldingly can’t try to change. It is rather that one would intensify it. Agony alone has the power to seduce us, and it is at our most malevolent torments that we most passionately clutch. We realize that a life which was not scorched into charcoal by desire would be an intolerable monotony. Pain however remains pain. The word is easily written. Perhaps there is no point in mentioning it. One could envisage countless specious reasons for repeating the word “scream” for instance. That life essentially is only tainted hurt … who could care about this being questioned? Everyone and no one?

Death is a conclusion of sorts, one assumes. This is reassuring enough to believe, and therefore almost certainly fallacious. How pleasing to be finalized by one’s abolition, to be edited by Death. This is a type of attitude comparable to that of all those who imagine they will become improved with Death, that age will receive them tenderly with her cold arms. This fantasy of a smooth passage is like that of principle, inheritance, and legacy, regarding thought on a model of transmission. It is thought as if it were essentially something received, presenting itself effectively to the absolute realization of an interpretation–however alluring and provocative this may be.

How much dying can a body achieve? At least one dose? Even this estimate seems cautious except in the case of the most elementary life. A more sophisticated organism is a true economy of Death, turning on a continual internal disaster, detaching its cells in an ocean of affliction. It is the most basic kind of mistake to assume the word Death for complete systemic breakdown: for the end of dying. Human bodies do not reiterate the neuroses that reside in them, deflecting erosion, seizing at deferral, shutting Death out, no, they overdose on Death, brokers in destruction, turning themselves over from within.

Matter shelters in a condition of rejection from the likelihood of essence as if from an original, valid ontology, and life is simply the most extraordinary and virological variation upon this denial-vision; the paroxysmal extreme of being’s resignation. Life is an exploration of Death, whose activation is an externality from which it can never disconnect itself. It becomes proximate to concurrence with a notion in its divergence from the resonance of actual essence, in its function or metabolism. Life tints itself across Death as the exodus from tangible existence—the wandering of a progressively heightened itinerant reproducibility out of chaos.

Particles are not identical; we willingly accept this when considering a body that is separated from itself by a few years. We attempt not to recognize that in this way we are admitting the irrevocable desertion by complex life of all adherences to existence. Life collapses into the possession of Death, becoming a sad clamor of vanishing, apathetic to its pulsating core, to its inner ruthlessness. To be part of an organism is to become expendable, and ever more expendable. No path is more suicidal than that of the living matter that becomes an organ.

We are even now resolute in the belief that we experience one specific and absolute Death, a Death customized to the characteristics of a soul. But if a body is a river of Death, what makes us so certain “a self” isn’t one? Is it possible that “we” should really stay the same? It is the simplest reason to believe in our existence of course, but then would it really be expedient for the body to acknowledge to the ephemera in its nerves that it has so slight an attachment to them?

A glance into the dark, and a fresh wound, a deep fissure in my mind opens up, all the memories that have been carefully or distractedly assorted, labeled, documented, filed, sealed, break-out in confusion like ants teeming out of a crack in the pavement; the world ceases to revolve, time stops, the very nexus of my dreams is broken and my guts spill-out in a massive schizophrenic rush, an evacuation that leaves me face to face with the Absolute.

“Death is not the only contradiction that enters into the edifice formed by man’s activity, but it has a kind of pre-eminence.” (Bataille VIII p.262)

What do you want to make of your life? An ominous question, when it is not a naïve one. What is a life if not a perfect dissolution? Whatever the nervous obsessions of a sacrilegious man, it is not possible for us to make anything of ourselves.

What is an end? One is disturbed perhaps? An end? Could there be more than one? Is not the very question a form of contravention? A merciless disposal, a kind of casting-off? Should Death be forced so ruthlessly into my understanding? Can she not wait? Is it not acceptable to sleep?

My sight seems to have closed in. The hospital is even quieter this morning. Hushed. I have a sinking feeling in my stomach. I feel defeated. My mind is bright, but my body is falling apart–a naked light-bulb in a dark and ruined room. There is Death in the air here, but we’re not talking about it. But I know the silence might be broken by distraught visitors screaming, “Help Sister! Help nurse!” followed by the sound of feet rushing along the corridor. Then silence.

Somehow the recognition that there was nothing to be hoped for had a salutary effect on me. For weeks, months, years, in fact, all of my life I had been looking forward to something happening, some intrinsic event that would alter my life, and now suddenly, inspired by absolute hopelessness, I felt relieved, felt as though an immense heaviness had been lifted from me. I decided to let myself drift, to make no resistance to Fate, no matter what form it took. Nothing that had happened to me so far had been enough to destroy me; nothing had destroyed me except my illusions. I was intact. The world was intact. It seemed to me that I could be no more truly alone than at that very moment. I decided that from now on I would hold onto nothing, that I would expect nothing.

More and more the world verges on an entomologist’s dream. The world is moving out of its orbit, the axis has adjusted; from the north the snow blows down vast razor blade drifts. A new ice-age originates, the diagonal stitches are closing-up and everywhere all through the Corn Belt the fetal world is dying, turning to dead mastoid. Segment by segment the deltas are drying out and the river beds are as smooth as glass. A new day is dawning, a metallurgical day, when the earth will clink with showers of bright yellow ore. As the thermometer drops, the appearance of the world becomes nebulous; there is still osmosis and occasionally articulation, but at the fringe the veins are all varicose, at the fringe the light waves distort and the sun bleeds.

“Life will dissolve itself in death, rivers in the sea, and the known in the unknown”. (Bataille V 119)

While we continue as dammed-up reservoirs of labor-power, we maintain our humanity, but the rivers flowing into us are an overriding craving to dissolution, inducing us into the inhumane. Underneath the harmonized exchanges of words we scream and bite at our shackled limbs. An impersonality as blank and relentless as the sun rises beneath us, a vermin-hunger for freedom. Humanity is a calcified fiction screened from zero, a purgatorial incarceration of dissolution, but to be shattered by sanctity is to sprawl-out in Death like a reptile in the sun. God is Dead, but infinitely more important, God is Death. The opening of the secret is that Death (= 0) is immense.

From birth we are programmed to conformity with the imprisonment, inculcated to accumulation, instructed to maintain the self, to fear madness and Death. Interned in an astringent mesh of language routines we follow a limited circuit in the maze. We are warned that chance will not take care of us, and that it is difficult to live. But work and seriousness are the slums of falsehood and the garbage-heap of individuation has no worth. What is termed life at the borders of patriarchy is a miserable box of lies, grind, and anesthesia combined with absurd suffering. What is significant about the outside of the box is not just that it is the outside of the box, but that it is immense. What is significant is the abyss, the chasm.

“I have the hope of coming to the end of my health, perhaps even to the end of a life without reason to be.” (Bataille III p.414)

Winter wind, oh my dying sister

Wolf gleam bite of hunger

Stone of frost pasted on a naked heart

Sickness is something I understand. My body shivers in an ecstasy of antipathy each day that it hauls itself across the planes of the world. The weather crushes me, my joints begin aching, ankylose, my lungs are torn and scorched to the state that they barely endure any longer, my skin is ashen and pale, and the hollows of my eyes are withdrawn into shadowy depths of filth. As for my nervous-system–infested and three-quarters psychotic–that is my real pathological show: no action that does not feel like the recoil of a creature tortured to the verge of submission, no thought that is not an illustration of damnation. Between ecstasy and pain there is no longer a space of interruption; there is not even a variation. I exist skewered on a traumatized energy, laughing with desire for each ratcheting of the degeneration.

Death is no longer a conditional problem for me, but a memory belonging to something else, a vestige upon zero. I can only ask myself: “Did Bataille also cross the line and die before the end?” Crouching deeply broken in this life, which has become the passage of an agonizing but exquisite horror, I supplicate myself to nothing and present the sacrifice of these words to Death.

The universal sleep is embraced by black. A comfortable warm black. This is no cold black. It is against this black that the rainbow shines. Beyond the galaxies lies that primordial dark from which the stars sparkle.

Things drift to pieces but I am tense and craving. We are fragments of Death entangled in an array of wolf threads and ravings. Bonded on the far side of blood, we are committed beyond sense in Hell. This enchantment is unfathomable in its severity. Shadows embalm me. The Moon whispers its electric plea to destruction, and I stare into the grave of my life which shatters in its humid psychosis.

Sickness and Death my sweet schizophrenic Mother, your child is lost to you and found on the other side in blissed-out inexistence. Abysses of disease open-up before me. I decay, transfixed upon abolition.

*Source: Georges Bataille Oeuvres Completes


© 2004 Adrian Gargett

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