Odilon Redon’s “Buddha” floats between dream and silence: a face lit from within, untouched by the noise of the world. The drawing feels less like religion than memory itself—fragile, inward, and strangely awake in the dark.

Milan Kundera names the drift toward oblivion. Before the mute ranks of books, I question the ash of memory. So little endures—splinters, almost nothing. Hours burned in reading; the mind retreats, leaving a pale residue, a trembling trace of what once flared into being.

Today, to remain lucid, one needs an almost heroic resistance to idiocy. The world is administered by noise: media and politicians, with brutal persistence, refine stupidity into a daily discipline. To think is to resist contamination. Lucidity becomes a form of exile.

Every time I stand before the restless sea, my thoughts falter, thin, vanish. Its cold indifference wipes out each frail intention I still cling to. I do not think there—I recede. And in that retreat, one truth endures: beside it, I am only a passing disturbance, already erased.

The room does not contain silence—it exhales it. A bowl, a shadow, a wall already forgetting itself. In Masao Yamamoto’s interior, nothing insists; everything withdraws. Even light hesitates, as if ashamed to exist too clearly. Presence becomes a polite form of disappearance.

Last night, W. G. Sebald reading: Austerlitz Sebald writes as if memory were a wound that refuses metaphor—only sediment. His sentences do not narrate; they accumulate like dust on the relics of a world already lost. To read him is to inherit a past that never belonged to you—and never leaves.

B. was not mistaken: we drown in a sea of printed corpses and call it literature. Never have so many written with so little soul. The Internet breeds authors like mold—quick, shallow, forgettable. An age prolific in words, bankrupt in spirit.

From the neighbor’s window, Mahler's Symphony No. 5 exhales its weary confession. After the street’s crude delirium, the Adagietto drifts in—an almost sacred fatigue. Not redemption, no—only the illusion that our decay might briefly sound like grace.

“What I seek in the poem is not refuge, but a place where truth can breathe, even if only briefly.” — Paul Crlan to René Char

J. dragged me to the cinema again, to a horror film. I never understood horror—only a poverty of imagination, a theatre of borrowed fear, screaming where thought should be. But what can one do? Even love demands its sacrifice, laid quietly on the altar of blind fidelity.

Longing is a silent exile: the body remains, but the breath has already gone to live with the one it misses. Each hour opens like an old wound, slow and incurable, whispering her name into the void where time once felt whole—and now only echoes.

The Turin Horse by Béla Tarr The wind does not blow; it erases. In this film, existence limps beside a dying horse, repeating gestures emptied of salvation. Each day survives the previous one without reason. If God once looked here, it was only to learn how to abandon.

“Yes, the joy of love is proof that time can encompass eternity.” — Alain Badiou, Prais of Love. A conversation with Nicolas Troung

When another’s sentence quietly mirrors the condition of your own inner life. "Suspended among all the forms and hoping for nothing but the wind." — Antonin Artaud

One should read only those books that wound the soul, that unsettle its fragile architecture. All else is decoration for sleepwalkers. The true book is a contagion: it corrupts the old 'I' and quietly forges another, unknown even to itself. It rewrites us in absence. Quietly. Always.

“Your body, composed of three-quarters water and a few terrestrial minerals—a small handful. And within you, this great flame whose nature you do not comprehend.” — Marguerite Yourcenar: Written in a Garden

Coffee with J. on the balcony last night. Twilight unfolded in a quiet flood of colors, as if the sky were remembering something it could not contain. The sun, a blood-orange wound, sank behind the lead-blue horizon;

In Byung-Chul han's book The Scent of Time, time drifts like a forgotten fragrance—no longer lived, only chased. I miss the slow weight of moments, when hours had depth, not speed, and life unfolded instead of vanishing into restless, silent acceleration.

The last chapter of Tolstoy's War and Peace does not end—it dissolves. Like a life recalled too late, it drifts into quiet abstractions, where meaning thins and time loosens its grip. What remains is not closure, but a tender, infinite melancholy: history breathing after the story has already died.

In the obscene carnival of history, where epochs devour themselves with ecstatic cruelty, he alone saw clearly: lucidity is merely despair refined into truth. "Nothing else could happen but the worst." — Louis-Ferdinand Céline: War

Byung-Chul Han’s THE CRISIS OF NARRATION feels like an autopsy of our scattered age: stories no longer hold us together, they fracture into data, noise, timelines. We lose depth, coherence, even memory. What remains is a self too fragmented to endure its own silence.

Writing—perhaps the most beautiful of obsessions—burns quietly, a devotion that consumes without asking permission. "If I had no paper I would write on sand". — Wittgenstein, to a friend during WWI

Literary critics are unreadable readers: they hurry through books only to arrive before themselves, mistaking speed for insight and verdict for understanding.

Artaud does not mourn Van Gogh—he spits on the tribunal that named him mad. Suicide? No—execution by a world allergic to vision. Kamov would laugh bitterly: society digs the grave, then weeps at the corpse it demanded. Genius is merely a slower murder.

In Richard Powers, thought becomes ecology—mind branching like roots through data, music, forests. His sentences listen as much as they speak, reminding us that consciousness is not singular but symphonic, trembling between code and leaf, human and more-than-human.

The first bluish breath of morning does not illuminate—it withdraws the world from noise. Silence stands upright, almost sacred, as if night had not ended but refined itself. In that pale hour, even time hesitates, unwilling to profane what has not yet fully begun.

Reading Elias Canetti’s writings on Franz Kafka, one gets the impression that Canetti hunted Kafka the way one hunts a mirror that reflects oneself; he searched for a wound deeper than his own. But as Emil Cioran noted, obsession is just envy that has lost its mask.

You could devour entire libraries and still come back empty-handed. At best, you may want to read three or four authors again. The rest is vanity in print—our common misfortune. Everyone suspects he is a writer; few survive rereading.

I think what lingers most are those small, glowing moments—when J. would say, with quiet pride, “this is my boyfriend.” Now they echo differently… softer, emptier, like something I didn’t realize I was already losing while I still had it.

Awake an hour, yet unrisen. The sun doles out its light—sparingly, as if under watch. Leaves hold their breath. Morning smolders beyond the pane; within, I keep to a chosen silence, taut as a bowstring, unwilling to loose its single, necessary cry.

That girl on the bar stool—her smile cutting through the café’s dim hush this morning—felt like spring finding its voice. For all the charm I could muster, it didn’t matter. That smile still outwrote me, pure magic dressed up as something simple.

A quiet ache lingers in this still frame—light fading like a memory half-kept. Toshya Watanabe captures not just an image, but the hush between moments, where solitude breathes and time feels tender, slipping softly beyond reach.

Second day in Vienna. I move quietly between rooms once inhabited by ghosts—Mozart, Klimt, Freud—names that feel heavier than the walls. The sky hangs low, without promise. Yet the city exhales a soft, inescapable melancholy, as if it remembers something I never knew.

Paul Celan writes as if language survived its own execution—each word a scar that refuses metaphor. In a world already ruined, his poems do not console; they persist, like breath after drowning. One reads him not to understand, but to endure silence.

After finishing The Brothers Karamazov by Dostoevsky, I sit in stunned silence. How could one mind contain such vastness and depth of pain, faith and chaos, and transform it into a living world? This enormity feels both inspiring and unbearably human.

In the antiseptic purgatory of the waiting room, the gaze of a man gnaws at the exposed knees of a teenage girl — an obscenity disguised as awe. Youth, that brief dictatorship of the flesh, inspires delicacy and inflames crudeness. Thus, revelation and desire drink from the same poisoned well.

Unrequited love is devotion stripped of illusion: a liturgy performed before an absent god. One gives without echo, burns without witness. In loving alone, we discover not the other, but the abyss we mistook for them.

Sunday is when I practice the art of being alone. I remain in bed until the body compels me to exist. The rain repeats itself like a thought I cannot decipher. Even love exhausts me. I expect nothing; I abandon even hope, and so remain, quietly, unfinished.

Nostalgia is a silent betrayal: it paints the past in gold leaf, hiding the cracks I once tripped over. I ache not for what was, but for what I did not see while it was still breathing. Memory softens the truth until even sorrow begins to feel like home.

I repeat: I have to change something. But I am struck by a lucid paralysis: the certainty that something is wrong, coupled with a devotion to inaction. I observe my own decline with obscene clarity, preferring the elegance of ruin to the vulgar attempt at redemption.

One of those mornings where rain does not fall but seeps—into bones, into will. The bed clings like a conspirator. To rise feels obscene, a betrayal of exhaustion. Even light limps through the window, ashamed. I remain—half-alive, half-refusing.

The sea mocks our longing: endless, indifferent, it swallows the horizon and spits back nothing. We chase that line as if it promised meaning, but it retreats with each step. Desire dies there, where infinity and futility kiss, and we remain, stranded in our own insignificance.

I’ve been scrolling through all my Obsidian entries, and many fragments feel alien, as if authored by strangers. It raises the philosophical horror: are we ever truly one? Or does each of us host a clandestine multitude, a hidden society whispering beneath the illusion of singular identity?

“Yesterday,” B. confides, “one of those hours when anxiety admits no remedy—neither laughter nor music, neither talk nor love.” A trivial revelation: the world cures nothing because it cares for nothing. We are left alone, accomplices of an indifferent void that neither wounds nor consoles.

I read Solvej Balle and feel time loosen its grip on certainty. Her prose moves quietly, yet fractures reality from within. I walk through her pages as through a calm paradox—nothing explodes, yet everything shifts, subtly, irreversibly.

Last night's reading, Antonin Artaud: LETTRES DE RODEZ Reading Antonin Artaud’s Letters from Rodez feels like chewing glass with devotion. Each sentence spits blood at reason. I do not understand—I convulse. Thought rots, nerves speak. A sacred illness whispers: be broken, or be nothing.

“I want to make photographs that evoke a memory, or a feeling—like something you’ve seen before, but can’t quite remember.” — Masao Yamamoto

Sunday: the small theater of illusions. Coffee to awaken the corpse, a cigar to perfume decay, a blog to pretend that thoughts matter. I write not from hope, but from habit—the last refuge of a consciousness too lucid to pray, too stubborn to fall silent.

For a feverish reader, time is a vulgar tyrant. Five unread books glare from the table like silent indictments, and yesterday I dragged home two more—gluttony of the mind. Now I understand that bitter complaint about lacking time to write: life itself chews the hours to the bone.

I do not listen to audiobooks—I endure them. A stranger’s voice chews the sentence before I can bite it. Words arrive already digested, lukewarm, obedient. Reading should wound, burn, revolt. Here it only hums. Literature turned into a lullaby for exhausted souls.