Weary with my weariness, white last moon, sole regret, not even. To be dead before her, on her, with her, and turn, dead on dead, about poor mankind, and never have to die any more, from among the living. Not even, not even that. My moon was here below, far below, the little I was able to desire. And one day, soon, son, one earthlit night, beneath the earth, a dying being will say, like me, in the earthlight, Not even, not even that, and die, without having been able to find a regret.
-Samuel Beckett, Malone Dies
E. M. Cioran, On The Heights of Despair (via depressionparty)
“The truth is death. You have to choose: death or lies. I’ve never been able to kill myself.”
— Louis-Ferdinand Céline
Peter Wessel Zapffe, The Last Messiah (via poeticsofdeath)
St. Gallen, Stiftsbibliothek, Cod. Sang. 1311, f.14. The travel diary (“Reisebuch”) of Alsatian world traveler Georg Franz Müller. 1669-1682.
“Müller was employed by the East India-Holland Company between 1669 and 1682 as a soldier in the Indonesian archipelago. In the “Reisebuch” he sketched people, animals and plants that he encountered during his voyage (via South Africa) to Indonesia and his travels in Indonesia. He also composed simple, sometimes rough verses, about all these people, animals and plants, and wrote them out in his idiosyncratic, difficult to read script.”
The jade death mask of Mayan king Pacal the great (K’inich Janaab’ Pakal.)
Duplicate of Pacal’s tomb in Palenque.
St. Gallen, Stiftsbibliothek, Cod. Sang. 357, detail of f. 343. Missal. St. Gall, 1555.
Emmanuel Levinas, Totality and Infinity (via poeticsofdeath)
Gilles Deleuze, The Logic of Sense (via poeticsofdeath)