La Nature des Choses

Vous avez trop d’esprit pour ne pas reconnaitre tot ou tard que la morale est dans la nature des choses.

Deliberation or premeditation I could not discover. I defend man by excuse of diminished responsibility. I stood up from my chair and started pacing down the room, pondering, preparing an impossible argument before abandoning it already, I was trying to conceive an apologee perhaps, but also abandoned this thought, then concluded nothing. We men need to listen to the heart, this is when we are alive, this is when we feel a purpose in our being, when there is reason to exist.

I detest that man, who hides one thing in the depths of his heart, and speaks forth another.

The suspect, Odysseus, “master of deceit (dolos)”. It is through his inventiveness (metis) that the Greeks finally take Troy. The Wooden Horse of Athena. Once we allow reason into our heart, the walls of honesty collapse. It is in the heart that we find the nature of man. It is the heart that makes our blood rush, the heart that feeds our muscles and the brain, that is the well of meaning replenishing a stream of consciousness that fills us.

Herein!
Du musst es dreimal sagen.
Herein denn!
So gefällst du mir.

There is no principle to exhonorate the man. Er ist in Grund and Bodem verdorben. He in the deepest of his being has no morals, he is a Mephisto. He is a Hoeffgen who imposes himself persistently, irrevocably to his fellow men deminished to an audience in his presence. This man creeps up to man, raids the nest of the heart, sneaks up on man in the guile of friendliness, and robs man of his innocence when he is defenseless against his imposture and guilt. Homo homini lupus est.

How can I resist to a dream, after all, for which I know no criterium for reality?

Ravished, the impression repeated, salt in the wounds of my memory, this consciousness haunts me. I am guilty of original sin a thousand times. I will with a renewed sense of rebirth seek within myself again. I have forgotten those black days of fear in which my heart was happily wrapped. My reflections repeat the words of thought in goalless reincarnations as if there is an escape in them. My guilt is abstract. The echo of my childhood urges to repent, I repent. This echo of the heart stuck to me as a syrupy fatum smeared onto my wax wings. I plan to go against the turning of the world and escape the labyrinth in which I was trapped. In my earliest youth I was free, but these priests cast a negative film over my eyes, and turned the world upside down. The justice of human suffering is just. To be expelled from the garden, the light of the gods flickers no longer in me, for it casted darkness.

Damit du, losgebunden, frei,
Erfahrest, was das Leben sei.
Zu jung, um ohne Wunsch zu sein.
Was kann die Welt mir wohl gewaehren?
Entbehren solst du! Sollst entbehren!

To exist and to be present, Dasein. I embrace this air, a wind of turbulence that surrounds my body, that whispers in my deaf ears. This life is the insight of oscillating thoughts that but fludder in my head, my capricious convictions that continuously change and alter and go in no direction, that are good nor evil, but movement, steered by the heart. In all this, I see not even the slightest possibility of foresight, not even a shadow of truth.

Diminished Capacity (wikipedia.com)

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