And surely we throw ourselves into erotic pleasures above all in order to remember them. So that their luminous points will connect our youth with our old age by means of a shining ribbon! So that they will preserve our memory in an eternal flame!
Life, it seems, is a moving between eternities. It is a stretched out continuum highlighted by points which link us--or at least give us the impression of linking us--to some sort of encounter with the infinite. And, of course, many times--most times--this happens in the throes of erotic desire. Life, it seems, is temporality lived out between the illusion of the infinite, and its infinite hope. This is who we become--not the continuum, but the points along the way that leave our memory seared with the mark of something more, something beyond. These encounters take us beyond ourself and thus, in some tragic way, end up defining us.
And take it from me, my friend, only a word uttered at this most ordinary of moments is capable of illuminating it in such a way that it remains unforgettable.
-Milan Kundera
In those moments, our lives become eternal. Within seconds, we build an image that becomes the irreplaceable, singular unity of the otherwise temporal existence of everyday life.
Shall we collect them? Mark as many points on that continuum as possible in order to create a storehouse of memories of the infinite? The hopeless quest of infinite memories? Or, shall we connect? Shall we connect intimate, fiercely, ferociously--attacking the moments, the seconds, the breaths with the impossible dream of destryoing them? The dream of timeless victory--timeless connection?
They say for me that I'm a collector of women. In reality I'm far more a collector of words.
-Milan Kundera
Regardless, there will always be words to speak about them--whether the connections and collection remains plentiful or few, vulnerable or superficial.
When I can't write anymore I'll die. But I'll die loving. -Ivan Klima
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