Beware of angels, always.
Obsessed by the idea that there is at least a touch of evil in the interaction between angels and humans. When angels violate human space, they know this. Angels are not inherently holier than humans. Angels occupy different spaces and possess higher-order capabilities, and of course, have greater access. But angels are susceptible. On the surface, an angel's intervention on earth seems miraculous, but they are messing around where they should not be.
Angels and humans can agree on their envy for each other's state.
"Look at the state she's in, eating nettles"
"I no longer even recognise myself. What made me like the others has been destroyed. I was like everyone else, with many faults, perhaps, mine and those of the world around me. You made me different by taking me out of the natural order of things. While you were near, I didn't realise it. Now I understand, you're leaving and knowing I'm losing you makes me aware of my difference. What will become of me from now on? The future will be like living with someone, nothing to do with myself. Maybe I must probe the depths of this difference you have revealed which is the innermost anguish of my being. But whether I desire it or not, won't this set me against everyone?"
Yes, it will. And it will be a lonely life. Revelations, cessations, and shifts that increasingly divorce someone from ignorance, force them to look. Because once ignorance is split, what you thought was bliss, does get exposed, and then it breaks down. If the individual wants to exist in a state of true bliss, they are forced to try to stand upright. Trying to get up is lonely. You'll roam around the 'Deserts of Love'
"Your destruction has been complete. You've simply destroyed the image of myself I've always had"
I wish I did not feel this way today, but I do. How can people skim the real and not want to go there? How can you get messed up by a painting or a track but stay committed to your sleepwalk? I love everyone, but that doesn't mean I want us to stay where we're at. I am grossed out by my own sleepwalking, maybe the bare minimum is to wish for a change in that state. It's better not to talk to anyone at all than to talk to another sleepwalker that is perfectly contented with the dumbest, basest distractions possible. I want to refuse talk with them forever, at least until I get myself up. Christ.
He modifies the line from "hers" to "his"
Erotic encounters are precipitated by wiping cigarette ash off someone's pant leg, looking through a book of Francis Bacon paintings together, hunting gunshots and barks in the background, lifting a sick man's ankles up to shoulders, sitting between the devil's knees to show him photographs she took.
"We must try to come up with new, unrecognisable techniques resembling nothing that's come before to avoid the childish and the absurd. One must build one's own world that allows no comparisons where previous standards don't apply. The standards too must be new, like the techniques themselves."
--Taking a very Cixous-like stance here. But remember, his madness came from being touched by the "miraculous"
"Nobody must realise that the artist is worthless, that he's an abnormal, inferior being, squirming and slithering like a worm to survive. No one must ever witness his lapses into clumsy artlessness. Everything must appear perfect, based on unknown and hence unquestionable rules. Like a madman."
"Pane after pane, because I can't correct anything and nobody must notice. A sign painted on a pane corrects, without soiling it. A sign painted earlier on another pane. But everyone must believe that it isn't the trick of an untalented, impotent artist. Not at all. It must look like a sure decision, fearless, lofty and almost arrogant. Nobody must know that a sign succeeds by chance... is fragile. That's as soon as a sign appears well-made, by a miracle it must be protected, looked after, as in a shrine. But nobody must realise that is the artist is a poor, trembling idiot, second-rate, living by chance and risk, in disgrace like a child, his life reduced to absurd melancholy, degraded by feeling of something lost forever."
The powder blue kitchen matched the same colours in London in the late afternoon and early evening today. Pasolini's was a tenebrist, doors open light on them. Underwear and messed up clothing on the floor is such a thing in this movie: signalling abandonment everywhere. Wiazemsky's goddamned perfect spinning face.
"Don't be afraid, I didn't come to die, but to weep. Not tears of sorrow. No they will be a source of suffering. Go away now."
"You have seduced me, Lord, and I have let myself be seduced. You have violated me and you have prevailed. I have become an object of daily derision, everyone mocks me. For I heard the defaming of of many, terror on every side: 'Denounce him, and we will denounce him' All my friends awaited my downfall saying: 'Perhaps he will himself be seduced and we shall take our revenge on him'
















