A collectively kept cabinet of wonders; this is a place for discovery and digressions where a carefully selected group of editors from all over the world share memories, anecdotes, thoughts and inspiration.
Is life worth living? This is the silent question of meaning that Camus presents us. A question surrounded by silence, in which the Universe answers in silence. The same silence necessary for self-reflection. The silence of God.
Are we the vampire looking for our own image and finding none? or just the Narcissus eternally desiring his own image?.
“The Vampire Narcissus” is a monster that lives from the blood of others; unable to prove his own existence. Unable to see himself on the mirror, must find his image in our own terror; feeding from us proves that he exists.
Can we let go of our own image? It’s our image the prove that we exist? Does this prove bring us happiness?
Maybe if we abandon our image we find happiness, leaving our distorted “selfie” floating in the cosmos like that image from Superman II.
“Narcissus versus the Vampire. Narcissus who loves only his own image, that he contemplates in the mirrored water. The vampire who lives with the impossibility of such contemplation. The mirror shows him nothing. ‘One must imagine the paradox of a vampire-narcissus: one who pursues the reflection of which he is deprived.” -Regine Robin
What to do or not to do?
I’ll write this idea on my notebook. I’ll draw a sketch thinking:
-they will hate it.
Maybe I should grow up and become someone.
It was 1993 when I realized they were both the same person, same understanding of the human condition, surrounded by the outcasts of society and the rural Italy, using them as their models. In the same year, I felt in love with both. Behind every trace, I hope they will guide my hand to a perfect line. They will show me the light on the darker side of humanity.
This is one of my favorite monologues. It comforts me.
“One must try to come up with new, unrecognizable techniques that won’t resemble any previous ones, so as to avoid silly ridicule. One should build one’s own world that would allow no comparisons and for which there would be no previous measures of judgment, which must be new, like the technique. No one must realize that the author is worthless, that he’s an abnormal, inferior type that, like a worm, writhes and slithers to keep alive. No one must ever catch him being naive. Everything must appear perfect, based on rules that are unknown, and therefore, not judgeable. Like a crazy man, yes, like a crazy man. Glass on glass, because I’m unable to correct anything, and no one must realize this. A brush stroke on one pane corrects without spoiling the one painted before on another glass pane. But nobody must realize it is the expedience of an incapable, of an impotent. Not at all. It must seem like a firm decision, resolute, high, and almost domineering! No one must know that a stroke comes out well by chance, by chance and trembling. That as soon as a brush stroke comes out well, as if by miracle, it must be protected right away, and sheltered as in a shrine. But no one must notice that the artist is a poor, trembling idiot, a half-ass who lives by chance and risk, dishonored like a child, and has reduced his life to the silly melancholy of one who lives degraded by the impression of something lost forever.”