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| Davood Emdadian |
That which is most repressed because it hates the monotonous, the fixed for fixedness's sake, the safety based on fear, the imposture of language -- the hallucinated misery in which so many seem to live.
A desire for beauty that impels movement and inscribes on the living a principle of kindness, as Llansol calls it.
And there is something eroticising in this kindness, such as the kindness we stake when we love. The kindness that flows and lingers between lovers, and which they, once satiated, run the risk of never finding again.
It alone makes the splendour of bodies, inscribing their intense and attractive forms on significant and surprising relationships from which affection emerges.
And the greatest, deepest grief of every being, that which can make her/him irreversibly bitter, ugly, sick, opaque, is to have risked that kindness and lost it, as though one loses a game.
Because to be abandoned, to have the kindness one has extended to an other treated with contempt is to be buried alive under a devastation of ashes.
Yet how can one possibly resign oneself to lose it?
Better die howling in pain than shield oneself from the risk of growing -- and, above all, from the light one so sorely misses.
A desire for beauty that impels movement and inscribes on the living a principle of kindness, as Llansol calls it.
And there is something eroticising in this kindness, such as the kindness we stake when we love. The kindness that flows and lingers between lovers, and which they, once satiated, run the risk of never finding again.
It alone makes the splendour of bodies, inscribing their intense and attractive forms on significant and surprising relationships from which affection emerges.
And the greatest, deepest grief of every being, that which can make her/him irreversibly bitter, ugly, sick, opaque, is to have risked that kindness and lost it, as though one loses a game.
Because to be abandoned, to have the kindness one has extended to an other treated with contempt is to be buried alive under a devastation of ashes.
Yet how can one possibly resign oneself to lose it?
Better die howling in pain than shield oneself from the risk of growing -- and, above all, from the light one so sorely misses.
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