maurice thomas

Inspired from this vine. I was so disappointed that no one had created an lotf animation (well sort of) with it, so I decided to take matters into my own hands. Enjoy my wasted week of work. Oh yeah and this is an AU where Jack TOTALLY tried to flaunt his C sharp skills and signal everyone on the island before Ralph even has a chance to blow the conch and Piggy’s glasses are no longer viable for starting signal fires XD

The night seemed to him far more somber, more terrible than any other night, as though it had truly issued from a wound of thought which no longer thought itself, of thought taken ironically as object by something other than thought. It was night itself. Images which constituted its obscurity inundated him, and his body, transformed into a demoniacal spirit, tried to imagine them. He saw nothing, and, far from being distressed, he made this absence of vision the culmination of his sight. Useless for seeing, his eye took on extraordinary proportions, developed beyond measure, and, stretching out on the horizon, let the night penetrate its center in order to create for itself an iris. Throughout this void, it was the look and the object of the look which mingled together. Not only did this eye which saw nothing apprehend something, it apprehended the cause of its vision. It saw as an object that which prevented it from seeing.
—  Maurice Blanchot, Thomas the Obscure
2

Walt Whitman (May 31, 1819 – March 26, 1892) 

American poet, essayist, and journalist. A humanist, he was a part of the transition between transcendentalism and realism, incorporating both views in his works. Whitman is among the most influential poets in the American canon, often called the father of free verse. His work was very controversial in its time, particularly his poetry collection Leaves of Grass, which was described as obscene for its overt sexuality. (Wikipedia)

From our stacks: Frontispiece “Walt Whitman and the Butterfly. From a photograph by Phillips & Taylor, Philadelphia” and front matter from Leaves of Grass By Walt Whitman. Issued under the editorial supervision of his literary executors, Richard Maurice Bucke, Thomas B. Harned, and Horace L. Traubel. Garden City, New York: Doubleday, Page and Company, 1920.

She could not speak and yet she was speaking. Her tongue vibrated in such a way that she seemed to express the meanings of words without the words themselves. Then, suddenly, she let herself be carried away by a rush of words which she pronounced almost beneath her breath, with varied inflections, as if she wanted only to amuse herself with sounds and bursts of syllables. She gave the impression that, speaking a language whose infantile character prevented it from being taken for a language, she was making the meaningless words seem like incomprehensible ones. She said nothing, but to say nothing was for her an all too meaningful mode of expression, beneath which she succeeding in saying still less. She withdrew indefinitely from her babbling, to enter yet another, less serious babbling, which she nevertheless rejected as too serious, preparing herself by an endless retreat beyond all seriousness for repose in absolute puerility, until her vocabulary, through its nullity, took on the appearance of a sleep which was the very voice of seriousness.
—  Maurice Blanchot, Thomas the Obscure

“She could not speak and yet she was speaking. Her tongue vibrated in such a way that she seemed to express the meanings of words without the words themselves. Then, suddenly, she let herself be carried away by a rush of words which she pronounced almost beneath her breath, with varied inflections, as if she wanted only to amuse herself with sounds and bursts of syllables. She gave the impression that, speaking a language whose infantile character prevented it from being taken for a language, she was making the meaningless words seem like incomprehensible ones. She said nothing, but to say nothing was for her an all too meaningful mode of expression, beneath which she succeeding in saying still less. She withdrew indefinitely from her babbling, to enter yet another, less serious babbling, which she nevertheless rejected as too serious, preparing herself by an endless retreat beyond all seriousness for repose in absolute puerility, until her vocabulary, through its nullity, took on the appearance of a sleep which was the very voice of seriousness.”

- Maurice Blanchot, Thomas the Obscure

She could not speak and yet she was speaking. Her tongue vibrated in such a way that she seemed to express the meanings of words without the words themselves. Then, suddenly, she let herself be carried away by a rush of words which she pronounced almost beneath her breath, with varied inflections, as if she wanted only to amuse herself with sounds and bursts of syllables. She gave the impression that, speaking a language whose infantile character prevented it from being taken for a language, she was making the meaningless words seem like incomprehensible ones.  She said nothing, but to say nothing was for her an all too meaningful mode of expression, beneath which she succeeding in saying still less. She withdrew indefinitely from her babbling, to enter yet another, less serious babbling,  which she nevertheless rejected as too serious, preparing herself by an endless retreat beyond all seriousness for repose in absolute puerility, until her vocabulary, through its nullity, took on the appearance of a sleep which was the very voice of seriousness.
—  Maurice Blanchot, Thomas the Obscure