Under the smallish light of the only lamp
she works to incorporate words, time, the
disadvantages of history for life. But the
promise of this moment, Yes, is blocked:
most impossible of knots.
The air is stopped, the clock’s sound
cycles, Gone, Gone, Gone. If happiness lies
in forgetting, this house is doubtless doomed:
excess of history suffuses every darkened
room. The present’s liveness lies there with
the past, so that “feeling unhistorically’’
is wrong: a doctrine eternally undone by
concrete facts of action, finite experiences
making inner-worldly whirrings she calls love.
Reading Nietzsche at Twilight
1 November 2014