e-book Im Bannkreis der Lust: Härtetest (German Edition)

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Folknery UA. Ra dioaktivists D.

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A History of Babylon, from the Foundation of the Monarchy to the Persian

Clemens-Peter Wachenschwanz D. Theaterpack D. Bianca Froese-Aquaye D. Midgards Boten D. Axel Thielmann D. Tilo Augsten D. Bremer Jugendkantorei D. In Extremo D. Where things can happen. Its inhabitants are not formed or developed, but are born and become. The self is always naked as far as birth or death are concerned […].

One is obliged to conclude from this that the THING must present as a threat, that the relationship with the reality of desire must be appparent, for an apparatus of subjugation or oblivion as powerful as totalitarianism to be able and required to emerge. This is where the origins of totalitarianism must be sought. Lyotard is saying that what the National Socialist system sought to combat in Jewishness was its relationship to nothingness, to natality.

Which establishes a bond with genealogy and with the dead. Hannah Arendt:. It is because of my natality, not because of how I develop, that I am capable of a new beginning in the form of independent action. It is this action, says Arendt, that enables us to discover our unique identity, to explore our mesonatality between the generations; it is our link with the dead. The pain of the rupture as bonding, as the seasoning in the stew that the generations find themselves in together, is a pain to which we can never grow accustomed.

It hits us between the eyes every time. Writers and artists who seek to do justice to this difficult fact of the pain inherent in any metamorphosis — and any true art comes at the price of this tussle for justice — are sometimes not easy to bear. I mean me. I thought that once the weight of my first novel had fallen from me and I had wrung a legacy out of myself that could exist without me, it would be easier for me to be.

I would have a protector, a paper shelter.


The Rupture Is the Bonding

Like an architect whose graduation project is his first very own house. The sentences in my book would be a little nation and I would be their regent. And I would be able to milk them.

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Like lice, I would milk the letters in my book and suck the life force out of them. The blanks between the letters would be my flesh, the alphabet would be my habitat. The lead would be my blood and the ink would drip from my eyes. A lily would spring from my book, and this lily reaching tall into an empty sky would be me!

It was only when my mother died that I was capable of writing this book. Only when my mother died did I become fertile, able to sprout buds, to cast off leaves, to give birth. And the conflict I waged with my mother in her last years was due to that curious fact: I was competing with her over her ability to give birth.

Critics and Criticisms of Hamlet's Mill

This anger towards my mother might have been due to her regarding me as her creation: seeing me as her creature, the work that gave her a justification for her own existence on the shoulders of my being brought into the world. And when my mother died I, the child of this conflict, was able to give birth to my novel, odd as that may sound. When I was twelve I came across two portraits that a street artist in Thun had drawn of my mother when she was twelve.

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They show the most beautiful girl I know in the world, or have ever known. Simply the separate strands of her thick, healthy, wheat-blond Albert Anker plaits, her eyeballs, the irises of cornflower blue glinting through the tint of lead and paper. An X-ray gaze shining at me through time and paper, looking at me. Like the ghost of my libido. I remember how I immersed myself full of passion into those drawings by copying them with a pencil. By plumbing my lead into the gaze of my mother, exactly my age, delving into her, for hours, for days.

I filled over forty sheets with graphite lines, increasingly accurate, until I could circle her nose precisely and managed to expose exactly the right tiny bright spot on the tip, delicate and not too wide.