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Symptoms

Symptoms

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Symptomatic amalgamation of readings and highlights from a variety of areas: philosophy, clinical psychoanalysis, literature, art history, political theory, and everything in between. www.jouissance.net @DivyaRanjan1905

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Kanal postlari
“These dreams: what we are when we are no longer ourselves: our survivings. Prophets of our traces, of our ultimate metamorphoses. Self-portraits of our future phantoms.” — HÊlène Cixous, Three Steps on the Ladder of Writing

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“Thinking is trying to think the unthinkable: thinking the thinkable is not worth the effort. Painting is trying to paint what you cannot paint and writing is writing what you cannot know before you have written: it is preknowing and not knowing, blindly, with words. It occurs at the point where blindness and light meet. Kafka says — one very small line lost in his writing — “to the depths, to the depths.” — HÊlène Cixous, Three Steps on the Ladder of Writing
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https://cosmonautmag.com/2022/02/the-question-of-worldview-and-class-struggle-in-philosophy-on-the-relevance-of-lukacss-worldview-marxism-and-the-destruction-of-reason/
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Jennifer_Pitts_A_Turn_to_Empire_The_Rise_of_Imperial_Liberalism.pdf
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Matn yo'q...
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https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Narcissism_of_small_differences
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Autistici supplied much of the technical knowledge. Inventati brought its experience with publishing, cultural work and movement communication. Together they became Autistici/Inventati, usually shortened to A/I. The collective’s legal association was called Investici, but A/I never became a conventional organization. It had no coordinator, official leader or permanent spokesperson. Decisions were made collectively rather than by majority vote. Nobody was paid. Its resources came from voluntary donations, benefit events and the labor of the people maintaining it. The dual name was deliberate. A/I was a Janus-faced creature: one face technical, the other communicative; one facing the machine, the other facing the movements that needed it.
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In solidarity with Autistici/Inventati whose email service I have uses for 3 years now. They are an example of how the Left must fight against the State and Capital! https://cavallette.noblogs.org/2026/08/10083/2
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Take a book, the poorest one written, but read it with the passion that it is the only book you will read-ultimately you will read everything out of it, that is, as much as there was in yourself, and you could never get more out of reading, even if you read the best of books. Soren Kierkegaard, Stages on Life's Way (1845)
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What is this ache that afflicts me so Do you know, can you sense it my beloved? Can you sense it from afar? A rain drenched darkness A night streaked with lightning The breeze throbbing to the tremors in my heart Do you know, can you sense it my beloved? This woeful wakefulness of mine I wonder if it will be in vain Do you know my beloved? The Malati you planted at my doorstep She has blossomed today Do you know my beloved? The Veena that you had tuned She cries out in my lap today The ache of being forgotten Rabindranath Tagore, aamaar ki bedona shey ki jaano (tr. Rumela Sengupta)
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āφāĻŽāĻžāϰ āϕ⧀ āĻŦ⧇āĻĻāύāĻž āϏ⧇ āĻ•āĻŋ āϜāĻžāύ⧋ āĻ“āĻ—ā§‹Â Â Â Â āĻŽāĻŋāϤāĻž, āϏ⧁āĻĻā§‚āϰ⧇āϰ āĻŽāĻŋāϤāĻžāĨ¤ āĻŦāĻ°ā§āώāĻŖāύāĻŋāĻŦāĻŋ⧜ āϤāĻŋāĻŽāĻŋāĻ°ā§‡Â Â Â Â Â Â āϝāĻžāĻŽāĻŋāύ⧀ āĻŦāĻŋāϜ⧁āϞāĻŋ-āϏāϚāĻ•āĻŋāϤāĻžāĨĨ āĻŦāĻžāĻĻāϞ-āĻŦāĻžāϤāĻžāϏ āĻŦā§āϝ⧇āĻĒā§‡Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â āφāĻŽāĻžāĻ°Â Â Â Â Â Â  āĻšā§ƒāĻĻ⧟ āωāĻ āĻŋāϛ⧇ āϕ⧇āρāĻĒ⧇--         āϏ⧇ āĻ•āĻŋ āϜāĻžāύ⧋ āϤ⧁āĻŽāĻŋ āϜāĻžāύ⧋āĨ¤ āĻ‰ā§ŽāϏ⧁āĻ• āĻāχ āĻĻ⧁āĻ–āϜāĻžāĻ—āϰāĻŖ āĻ āĻ•āĻŋ āĻšāĻŦ⧇ āĻŦ⧃āĻĨāĻž āĻ“āĻ—ā§‹ āĻŽāĻŋāϤāĻž, āϏ⧁āĻĻā§‚āϰ⧇āϰ āĻŽāĻŋāϤāĻž, āφāĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻ­āĻŦāύāĻĻā§āĻŦāĻžāĻ°ā§‡Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  āϰ⧋āĻĒāĻŋāϞ⧇ āϝāĻžāϰ⧇ āϏ⧇āχ āĻŽāĻžāϞāϤ⧀ āφāϜāĻŋ āĻŦāĻŋāĻ•āĻļāĻŋāϤāĻž--āϏ⧇ āĻ•āĻŋ āϜāĻžāύ⧋āĨ¤         āϝāĻžāϰ⧇ āϤ⧁āĻŽāĻŋāχ āĻĻāĻŋā§Ÿā§‡āĻ› āĻŦāĻžāρāϧāĻŋ āφāĻŽāĻžāϰ āϕ⧋āϞ⧇ āϏ⧇ āωāĻ āĻŋāϛ⧇ āĻ•āĻžāρāĻĻāĻŋ--āϏ⧇ āĻ•āĻŋ āϜāĻžāύ⧋ āϤ⧁āĻŽāĻŋ āϜāĻžāύ⧋āĨ¤         āϏ⧇āχ āϤ⧋āĻŽāĻžāϰ āĻŦā§€āĻŖāĻž āĻŦāĻŋāĻ¸ā§āĻŽā§ƒāϤāĻžāĨĨ āϰāĻŦā§€āĻ¨ā§āĻĻā§āϰāύāĻžāĻĨ āĻ āĻžāϕ⧁āϰ
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What my heart wants to tell remains untold within What comes forth are my tears, my ache I think of saying a few words Why do I look at you and withdraw I fear your gaze would make me faint Why do my eyelids lower so He walks away crestfallen Do call him back, my friend He could not fathom, he left in pain My heart-creeper lies drooping in the dust Rabindranath Tagore, "mone roye gelo moner kotha" (tr. Rumela Sengupta)
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āĻŽāύ⧇ āĻ°ā§Ÿā§‡ āϗ⧇āϞ āĻŽāύ⧇āϰ āĻ•āĻĨāĻž--      āĻļ⧁āϧ⧁ āĻšā§‹āϖ⧇āϰ āϜāϞ, āĻĒā§āϰāĻžāϪ⧇āϰ āĻŦā§āϝāĻĨāĻž āĨĨ āĻŽāύ⧇ āĻ•āϰāĻŋ āĻĻ⧁āϟāĻŋ āĻ•āĻĨāĻž āĻŦ'āϞ⧇ āϝāĻžāχ,    āϕ⧇āĻ¨Â Â Â Â āĻŽā§āϖ⧇āϰ āĻĒāĻžāύ⧇ āĻšā§‡ā§Ÿā§‡ āϚāϞ⧇ āϝāĻžāχāĨ¤ āϏ⧇ āϝāĻĻāĻŋ āϚāĻžāĻšā§‡ āĻŽāϰāĻŋ āϝ⧇ āϤāĻžāĻšā§‡,    āϕ⧇āύ āĻŽā§āĻĻ⧇ āφāϏ⧇ āφāρāĻ–āĻŋāϰ āĻĒāĻžāϤāĻž āĨĨ āĻŽā§āϞāĻžāύāĻŽā§āϖ⧇, āϏāĻ–ā§€, āϏ⧇ āϝ⧇ āϚāϞ⧇ āϝāĻžā§Ÿ-- āĻ“ āϤāĻžāĻ°ā§‡Â Â Â Â āĻĢāĻŋāϰāĻžā§Ÿā§‡ āĻĄā§‡āϕ⧇ āύāĻŋā§Ÿā§‡ āĻ†ā§Ÿ āĻŦ⧁āĻāĻŋāϞ āύāĻž āϏ⧇ āϝ⧇ āϕ⧇āρāĻĻ⧇ āϗ⧇āϞ-- āϧ⧁āϞāĻžā§Ÿ āϞ⧁āϟāĻžāχāϞ āĻšā§ƒāĻĻ⧟āϞāϤāĻžāĨ¤ āϰāĻŦā§€āĻ¨ā§āĻĻā§āϰāύāĻžāĻĨ āĻ āĻžāϕ⧁āϰ
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https://thelampmagazine.com/issues/issue-36/over-the-borderline
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https://open.substack.com/pub/awaisaftab/p/under-the-borderline-rensin-and-the
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But have we forgotten the first contacts of our early youth with genius? We never deliberately chose anything; we had successive, or simultaneous, enthusiasms, often quite incompatible with each other. What young poet ever chose between Baudelaire and Jean Aicard (or even ThÊophile Gautier)? What novelist between Dostoevski and Dumas (or even Dickens)? What painter between Delacroix and Cormon (or even Decamps)? What musician between Mozart and Donizetti (or even Mendelssohn)? Tristan did not choose between Isolde and the lady beside her. Every young man’s heart is a graveyard in which are inscribed the names of a thousand dead artists but whose only actual denizens are a few mighty, often antagonistic, ghosts. AndrÊ Malraux, Voices of Silence (1974)
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Erdmut_Wizisla_Walter_Benjamin_and_Bertolt_Brecht_The_Story_of_a.pdf
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Matn yo'q...
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Matn yo'q...
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Jalal al-Din Rumi, Masnavi
Jalal al-Din Rumi, Masnavi
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