(“Death is the most terrible thing; And to
maintain its works is what requires the greatest
strength” – Hegel)

Would it all be absurd? Or might it make some kind
of sense? I’ve made myself sick wondering about
it, I awake in the morning – Just the way millions
do, Millions of boys, girls, infants and old men,
Their slumber dissipated forever... These
millions, those slumbers have no meaning. A hidden
meaning? Hidden, yes, “obviously”! But if nothing
has any meaning, there’s no point in my doing
anything. I’ll beg off. I’ll use any deceitful
means to get out of it, In the end I’ll have to
let go and sell myself to meaninglessness,
nonsense: That is man’s killer; The one who
tortures and kills, not a glimmer of hope left.
But if there is meaning? Today I don’t know what
it is. Tomorrow? Tomorrow, who can tell me? Am I
going to find out what it is? No, I can’t conceive
of any “meaning” other than “my” anguish, and as
for that, I know all about it. And for the time
being: nonsense. Monsieur Nonsense is writing and
understands that he is mad. It’s atrocious. But
his madness, this meaninglessness – how “serious”
it has become all of a sudden! – Might that indeed
be “meaningful”? My life has only a meaning
insofar as I lack one: oh, but let me be mad! Make
something of all this he who is able to,
Understand it he who is dying, And there the
living self is, knowing not why, It’s teeth
chattering in the lashing wind: The immensity, the
night engulfs it and, All on purpose, that living
self is there just in order... “not to know”. But
as for God? God, if he knew, would be a swine. He
would entirely grasp the idea... but what would
there be of the human about him? Beyond, beyond
everything... And yet farther, and even farther
still... HIMSELF, in an ecstasy, above an
emptiness...

Cognitive activity: God comes to be known in ways
that originate in God solely God is nothing if He
is not, in every sense, the surpassing God; In the
sense of common everyday being, in the sense of
dread, Horror and impurity, and, finally, in the
sense of nothing...

He is mystery, indeed he is the absolute mystery
Divine disclosure is in direct proportion To the
degree of divine concealment Intensification of
revelation equals To increase of god’s hiddenness
Descent of the Deus Absconditus

The unreservedly open spirit – open to death, to
torment, to joy -, The open spirit, open and
dying, Suffering and dying and happy, stands in a
certain veiled light: That light is divine. And
the cry that breaks from a twisted mouth may
perhaps twist him who utters it, But what he
speaks is an immense alleluia, flung into endless
silence, and lost there.

Shall my only victory be available in conscience?
Why is absence the proof, when I demand palpable
presence? There is enough light to enlighten the
elect and enough darkness to humble them There is
enough darkness to blind the reprobate and enough
clarity to condemn them, And make them without
excuse

Our perception is subject to the fissure of
concupiscence Woestruck am I realizing that the
light cast on this Chiaroscuro world is partial
and selective Division, election and
Find more similar lyrics on http://mp3lyrics.com/Jlepredestination Enabled by grace or left to one’s
own device...

Anguish only is sovereign absolute. The sovereign
is a king no more: it dwells low-biding in big
cities. It knits itself up in silence, obscuring
it’s sorrow. Crouching thick-wrapped, there it
waits, Lies waiting for the advent of Him who
shall strike a general terror; But meanwhile and
even so sorrow scornfully mocks at all that comes
to pass, at all there is.

From very high above a kind of stillness swept
down upon me and froze me It was as though I were
borne aloft in a flight of headless and unbodied
angels Shaped from the broad swooping of wings,
but it was simpler than that I became unhappy and
felt painfully forsaken, as one is when in the
presence of God

She was seated, she held one leg stuck up in the
air, to open her crack Yet wider she used her
fingers to draw the folds of skin apart And so her
“old rag and ruin” loured at me, hairy and pink,
Just as full of life as some loathsome squid
“Why”, I stammered in a subdued tone, “Why are you
doing that?” “You can see for yourself”, she said,
“I’m God”

No use laying it all up to irony when I say of her
that she is GOD. But GOD figured as a public whore
and gone crazy – That, viewed through the optic of
“philosophy”, makes no sense at all. I don’t mind
having my sorrow derided if derided it has to be,
He only will grasp me aright whose heart holds a
wound that is an incurable wound, Who never, for
anything, in any way, would be cured of it... And
what man, if so wounded, would ever be willing to
“die” of any other hurt?

If there is nothing that surpasses our powers and
our understanding, If we do not acknowledge
something greater than ourselves, Greater than we
are despite ourselves, Something which at all
costs must not be, Then we do not reach the
insensate moment towards which we strive With all
that is in our power and which at the same time We
exert with all our power to stave off

I can utter no word, O my God, unless I be
permitted by Thee And can move in no direction
until I obtain Thy sanction It is Thou, O my God,
Who hast called me into being through the power Of
Thy might, and has endued me with Thy grace to
manifest Thy Cause

The act whereby being – existence – is bestowed
upon us Is an unbearable surpassing of being, An
act no less unbearable than that of dying. And
since, in death, being is taken away from us at
the same time it is given us, We must seek for it
in the feeling of dying, In those unbearable
moments when it seems to us that we are dying
Because the existence in us, During these
interludes, Exists through nothing but a
sustaining and ruinous excess, When the fullness
of horror and that of joy coincide.

As I waited for annihilation, all that subsisted
in me Seemed to me to be the dross over which
man’s life tarries...

“Diabolus Absconditus”: the conjunction of
intellect And psychotropic-altered senses
supported by insistent and archaic sounds