Reading Nietzsche at Twilight

By | 1 November 2014

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.

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