No, no I haven’t been damned by the rainbow, but saved by it; melancholic morbidity systematizes sunshine, butterflies and rainbow. One reads the book to move to the uncharted territory of the prose of the impossible, the word of God shall illuminate the weakness of the impossible in its inability to foster a description of Venus without the libidinal; the cosmic poet, Claudel, the exorcist Claudel, the evangelist Claudel, what is this mystic of the word? Claudel, where was God in the theatre of cruelty?
We might go out like Bowie blaspheming the one, in claiming ‘I am the great I am’, and then undercut it by saying ‘on the day of execution, only women’s kneel and smile.’ What this means is fairly clear to us; isn’t it Claudel the champion of women as vessel where the divine reverberate, devoid of the libido? The concrete child knows, he knows every shade of righteousness. Concrete child, translate for me what my neighbour was rumbling about yesterday; is it a genuine plea for transformation of souls to be in the confessionist mood? We have abandoned naked, or is it a sadist excitement? If it is both, I am no longer his subject, even you know, I have burned the meso onto the soil it was conceived in.
No to the mechanical history of the office, the liquid one is asserted. Yes to the virtue of the egg, no to the ethics of the body. The sun of a rain, does the absolute expect “order” in anything? The weakness of the mind and the moment, and the image of an egg, cracked egg. Venus describe without the libidinal, the perfect Christian as imagined by ‘me.’ In/on the pure, Claudel, the cosmic poet along the shore of lake Wishe, in our summer.
And as usual, despite relocating the passion into the geographically bleak, the Claudelian problematic impose itself on me, in the name of redemption and the image of the grave that would one day embrace this body. An image further complicated by the voice of my sister saying “he laid with me at the garden of the white cat and made the waters whisper those words ‘There is no poetics after the flood but in the flood; in ‘the after’ there is only effacement without tension. This is born of a communication that took place with a dream and Rimbaud’s ‘after the flood. This is the face of the ocean.’ It was for you brother, for you.”
The line that is guilty in recalling the She from the desert truth is, “to fall in love with a nun in the guise of an actress.” This tears amounts to the tear of joy shad at the instance of my birth; Claudel stands between the chasms that tries to emerge between poesies. He tells us Nerval can be in a can, to be served every day of the week on my table, I couldn’t say the possessive word ‘my’ enough.