Thursday, April 14, 2011

The Heart without Authority Press

on concerns of the Body/Language/Book, from Cixous' The Book of Promethea::

“doing the one thing that now seems urgent and right to her: shouting her loud hymn of ecstatic pleasure, breaching the hide of the old tongue’s hard blare.”-6
“The boom that follows is inside [Promethea]. It is maybe even her womb itself.”-9
“There are words with obligations. There are sentences that carry the person who spoke them galloping away in a foaming race to the edge of the earth. There, if one has lied, the sentences turn back into wind, the words are reduced to ashes, and one falls into the void, without being able to utter a cry.”-23

“Luckily, Promethea is untranslatable. That is my one consolation; she races on in an out-of-breath language that is, for me, unbearable. Everytime she tosses something out it is so impassioned and so sudden, it so naked, that each time I shudder as if she has handed me a heart taken fresh from someone’s breast…”-23

“Her vocabulary comes always from the guts, hers or the earth’s.”-23

“No, we do not speak at all the same language, things she lets bubble up in a shower of sparks, I would like to collect and bind. She burns and I want to write out the fire! Luckily, I’ll never succeed.”-24

“[Promethea] frightens me because she can knock me down with a word. Because she does not know that writing is walking on a dizzying silence setting one word after the other on emptiness. Writing is miraculous and terrifying like the flight of a bird who has no wings but flings itself out and only gets wings by flying. She doesn’t know how I tremble with terror and certainty. Because to write is to work with a certainty that is demoniacal, solely, shakily, demoniacal, and yet to work with absolute confidence. / I am just as sure as I am uncertain.”-27

“There are still three or four small chambers I want to take you through in my labyrinth, and then there will be only the great treasure room. Entirely present. Entirely pure and clear. In the first stark, dark chamber, seventy-five feet down, I announce: This is raw eternity shining at the end of the gallery. It is a sort of luminous book, perhaps, not the slightest need for my circumlocutions.”-30

“I am in the next small chamber…and it is the same sort of questions, the same ordeal, the same agony. The question of birth, of nonbirth, of Noluck. How close I came to not being alive. To not being born…a bit of luck…That is why I still tell what is, with the astonishment of any little girl who exlores.”-32

“We are innocent. That is all I have to say. I know, it was a long time coming. I would have liked to begin our book with this phase but was afraid that by exposing it like this to the first glance I might alter the transparency of our innocence.”-39

“Everything that happens in this book has a pure violence. Everything, at least, is just being born or else dying.”-39

“This book can kill me. I am not spontaneous enough…Instead of leaping in with whinnies of joy, I start counting sparks: I mean—I slow down to listen to the words crackling in my heart; that is why I groan in pain. There is nothing to be done: I am incapable of simply enjoying fire. I want to understand its tongue, I want to grasp its words…”-40

“Sometimes where you hide is inside me, I have to search myself to drive you out of hiding. And that is the cause of our drama. The book opening behind this page is the journal of that drama. Our drama is that we live in a state of mutual invasion.”-53

“The most beautiful things cannot be written, unfortunately. Fortunately. We would have to be able to write with our eyes, with wild eyes, with the tears of our eyes, with the frenzy of a glaze, with the skin if our hands.”-53

“But it is a book of changes….This is a book of raw flesh.”-63

“No one had ever yet written on my heart. And now I am the one asking: ‘Come in Promethea, please come in. Write yourself on me, I want you to cover my organs with your great signs of life. The truth is, therefore, I am not writing: I am exposing myself to impressions as faithfully as I can. This takes guts.”-93

“Thing written so freely are made of blood and will and living phrases that need not communicate any knowledge but that cast enough of a glow to light our separate ways.”-99
“Yes. Sometimes I think a moment is so beautiful. I want to toss it handfuls of delicious words so gluttony will keep it there. Sometimes it makes me want to weep words, to pour all my eye’s words on her face. (if you don’t understand my contradictions I won’t be hurt.”-112

“I press on my breasts, I press against my heart. Sometimes words spurt out…”121

“You put your mark on me: because I don’t run away from you. You leave traces in me. You write me. You crowd me. You populate me. I recognize you: you are one of my people. You are my people. I don’t comprehend you. I contain you. No longer am I anything more than all your sensing space.”134

“But Promethea cares carnally about what she says. Watch out for words with her! Because Promethea is the person who has not cut the cord binding words to her bidy. Everything she says is absolutely fresh.”-154
-is that how we stay in the present? By not cutting the cord between our body and writing? How can that be done non-metaphorically?

“…in the darkest eroticism, I mean in a burning and painful obscurity of soul, with the soul in a state of raw nerves so that every word, every thought that brushed past me made me cry out in pain.”-174

“…her ecstasy is such that she is unable to murmur a single word.”-193

“But with you, Promethea, I am ready and willing to leap out of the Book, even to go visit some emaciated people, even if I don’t forget all my beautiful shoes, each of which is worth more than a bag of rice.”-198

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