René Daumal Quotes

If only he could say what is true!” said Totochabo.
Marcellin and I looked at him. He went on:
“You heard. If only you could stop dreaming for a minute, we could talk perhaps. But talk about what?”
And with a shrug of the spine, he made as if to go. Marcellin held him back by the tail of his coat, and declared:
“Now listen. I’m very much aware that I can’t think. I’m a poet. But I cannot think. I was never shown how. I’m always being teased about it. When I hear my friends holding philosophical discussions, I’d like to join in too, but they always go too fast for me. They tell me to read Plato, the Upanishads, Kierkegaard, Spinoza, Hegel, Benjamin Fondane, the Tao-Teh, Karl Marx, and even the Bible. I’ve had many goes at reading all of them, except the Bible, because (Bible indeed!) they must be having me on. It’s all crystal clear as I read the stuff, but afterwards I forget, or can’t talk about it, or come up with contradictory ideas which I can’t choose between, in a word, it doesn’t work.”
“My dear Marcellin,” I began, “first, you should …”
“Shut up, I said!” the old man shouted again and the superior smile blooming on my lips slid down into my stomach. “Carry on!” he said to Marcellin who proceeded to finish what he was saying:
“Well, now. I want you to tell me once and for all if I am an idiot and, if I’m not, what you have to do in order to think.”
“Think about what?” Totochabo said wearily and he turned away.
This time, we were both too dismayed to try and stop him. But, more important, we were thirsty and it did not take us too long to discover a small demijohn which fitted the bill very nicely. As we drank, lounging like ancient Romans, we recited convoluted poems. Just before my eyes closed, I had a vague twinge of conscience just as you do sometimes when you take a few steps back and rise onto the tips of your woes so as to get a good run at sleep and I remarked to Marcellin that I was much more of an idiot than he believed but a much less of one than I

You see,” Totochabo pointed out to me, “I’m as fed up with all this as you are. I shall now devise a way of shutting him up with a spot of sham erudition.”
Raising his voice, he went on:
“If it’s half-wits you want, you’d better go and look for them somewhere else, for we know jolly well that beneath the perceptible form of sound is hidden a silent essence. It is from this, this crucial point at which the kernel of the perceptible has yet to choose to be sound or light or something else, from this hinterland of nature where to see is to see sound and to hear is to hear suns, it is from this very essence that sound draws its power and its ordering force.”
And with a wink in my direction, he whispered:
“That should silence them, wouldn’t you say?”
“For good,” I replied. “But when you say sham erudition, do you mean real knowledge?”
“My poor fellow,” he said, “how very thirsty you are!”
It was true and I set about treating my condition.

In somber mood, I re-called my whole life up to this day, and my head spun with the buzzing of a hundred and one ouroboristic worms. I remembered the drinking parties that made us thirsty and the thirst that made us drink; I thought back to Sidonius recounting his endless dream; to the people who worked to be able to eat and who ate to have the strength to work; to the black thoughts I drowned with such sadness in the cask and which were reborn in different hues. Between the vicious circles of the drinking party and those of the delusory paradises, I would never again be able to choose, I could no longer be part of their revolutions, I was from that moment no more than a wasteland.

At least,' I said, 'she has the virtue of sincerity.'

'Some virtue! They've all got it. They show off quite shamelessly for everybody — except themselves, of course — to see. In our trade, we say a succulent abscess or a magnificent case of eczema; similarly, they proudly exhibit their sick organs under all manner of garbs. A man who makes a plate or a shirt or a loaf of bread or anything our great great ancestors called a work of art, has no need to try to be sincere; all he can do is practice his craft to the best of his ability. But once he starts making useless things, how can he not be sincere? I'm using the word in the somewhat weird sense that you yourself seem to understand it.)

Я мертв, потому что у меня нет устремления; У меня нет устремления, потому что я думаю, что обладаю; Я думаю, что обладаю, потому что не пытаюсь дать. Пытаясь дать, понимаешь, что у тебя ничего нет; Поняв, что у тебя ничего нет, пытаешься отдать себя; Пытаясь отдать себя, понимаешь, что ты ничто; Поняв, что ты ничто, ты стремишься стать; Стремясь стать, ты начинаешь жить.

Then, by asking questions methodically, he got me to recount in their proper sequence my own memories of that night; they were as written down above. And I attempted a conclusion:

'And that's how I came to see that we were less than nothing and had no hope. After that, would it not be the right thing to go out and hang yourself?'

He laughed and said:

'But what could be more comforting than to discover that we are less than nothing? It's only by turning ourselves inside out that we shall become something. Is it not a great comfort to the caterpillar to learn that she is a mere larva, that her time of being a semi-crawling digestive tube will not last, and that after a period of confinement in the mortuary of her chrysalis, she will be born again as a butterfly — not in a nonexistent paradise dreamed up by some caterpillary, consoling philosophy, but here in this very garden, where she is now laboriously munching on her cabbage leaf? We are all caterpillars and it is our misfortune that, in defiance of nature, we cling with all our strength to our condition, to our caterpillar appetites, caterpillar passions, caterpillar metaphysics, and caterpillar societies. Only in our outward physical appearance do we bear to the observer who suffers from psychic shortsightedness any resemblance whatsoever to adults; the rest of us remain stubbornly larval. Well, I have very good reasons for believing (indeed if I didn't there'd be nothing for it but to go off and dangle from the end of a rope) that man can reach the adult stage, that a few of us already have, and that those few have not kept the knack to themselves. What could be more comforting?

I am dead because I lack desire,
I lack desire because I think I possess.
I think I possess because I do not try to give.
In trying to give, you see that you have nothing;
Seeing that you have nothing, you try to give of yourself;
Trying to give of yourself, you see that you are nothing:
Seeing that you are nothing, you desire to become;
In desiring to become, you begin to live

I broke in, suggesting he should have a drink first so as to avoid the risk — to him — of having his tongue roll up into a ball and — to me — of having my lug-holes hammered at without doing my brains any good whatsoever.
He agreed with a gesture which consisted of holding up a small cask of Tokay at arm’s length above his head and my head respectively, the unimpeded flow from the open bung-hole sloshing into our stomachs in accordance with the method known as “never letting it touch the sides.”
Then he took up his story rather more clearly:
“The Kaffir, who tended the garden and looked after the chickens, in Cracow, used to sleep in the pigeon loft. He said it was ‘very good for the breath.’ One night, I had this terrifying dream. A huge corkscrew, which was the earth, was spinning round, turning on its axis and twisting in its own spiral, just like the signs outside American barbershops, and I could see myself, no bigger than a bug but not hanging on so well, slither and stumble over the helix, and with my thoughts sent whirling down moving staircases made of a priori shapes. Suddenly, the fatal moment, there is a loud crack, my neck snaps, I fall flat on my face and I emerge in a splash of sparks before the Kaffir who had come to wake me. He says: ‘Did you have an attack of the nasties, then? Come and look at this.’ And he leads me to the pigeon loft and gets me to peep through a hole in the wall. I put my eye to it. I see a terrifying sight: a huge corkscrew, which was the Earth, was spinning round, turning on its axis and twisting in its own spiral, just like the signs outside American barbershops, and I could see myself, no bigger than a bug, but not hanging on so well. …”
Eyes popping, the bumps on his forehead lit up, his moustache bristling, little Sidonius began the story again, which slotted into itself endlessly like the popular refrains everybody knows. He spoke feverishly, mangling his words. I listened, paralyzed with horror, at least ten times to his

"Mi appellai ad alcuni capi di Frenetici i quali, secondo le mie indicazioni, si sono messi a organizzare la distruzione dei giovani. Il metodo è molto semplice: si prendono i bambini nel momento in cui la loro intelligenza non è ancora sviluppata, in cui le loro passioni obbediscono ancora al minimo stimolo; li si fa vivere intruppati, vestiti e armati in modo uniforme e, grazie a discorsi magici e a esercizi fisici collettivi di cui noi possediamo il segreto, diamo loro quello che noi chiamiamo il "culto dell'ideale comune": è una devozione assoluta a un personaggio sbraitante e autocratico, o a un certo modo di vestire, o a qualche parola d'ordine, o a una certa combinazione di colori, poco importa. Ci basta allora di aver qui due gruppi opposti (o più di due, ma preferibilmente in numero pari) di giovani mantenuti in questa tensione sentimentale; l'unica precauzione da prendere è di non lasciare al loro cervello il tempo di funzionare, ma è facile. Allora (mi capite?) quando sono al punto giusto, li si lascia andare gli uni contro gli altri... e, dopo, si può respirare per un po'. Nello stesso tempo, ciò occupa e arricchisce i fabbricanti e i mercanti di uniformi e di armi e gli autori di esortazioni all'ecatombe, uno dei quali scriveva recentemente: "Un giovane che non è ucciso nel fiore dell'età, non è più un giovane, ma un futuro vecchio". (151)"

So tutto, ma non ci capisco niente. (120)

et quant aux silences, comment raconter des silences au moyen de mots ? Seule la poésie pourrait le faire.

"It was at that moment that I called in a few of the top Fidgeters who, under my directions, set about organizing the destruction of the young. The method is quite straightforward; the children are taken at the time when their intelligence is not yet fully developed, and their passions respond to the slightest stimulation; they are made to live in companies, dressed and armed uniformly, and by means of magic speeches and collective physical exercises, whose secret is ours alone, we give them what we call "the cult of the common ideal"; this is an absolute devotion to a loud-mouthed, authoritarian person, or to a particular form of dress, or to some catch phrase, or to a certain grouping of colors, or whatever. All we need then is to have here two opposing groups of young people (or more than two, but an even number is preferable) who have been kept at a high level of emotional tension; the sole precaution to take is to leave no time for their brains to function, but that's easy enough. Then (are you with me?) when they have reached just the right pitch, they are let loose on one another...and afterwards, we can breathe easy for a while. This, at the same time, occupies and enriches the manufacturers and sellers of uniforms and armaments, and the authors of tracts which recommend the uses of carnage, one of whom wrote recently: "The young man who is not killed in the flower of youth is not a young man, he is the old man of tomorrow.

Era tardi, quando ci mettemmo a bere. Pensavamo tutti che era ormai tempo di cominciare. Quel che c'era stato prima, non lo si ricordava più. Solo ci dicevamo che era già tardi. Sapere da dove ciascuno veniva, in qual punto del globo si era, o se veramente un globo (in ogni caso non era un punto), e il giorno del mese di quale anno, tutto ciò era troppo per noi. Non si sollevano questioni simili quando si ha sete.

I am dead because I lack desire;
I lack desire because I think I possess;
I think I possess because I do not try to give.
In trying to give, you see that you have nothing;
Seeing you have nothing, you try to give of
yourself;
Trying to give of yourself, you see that you are
nothing;
Seeing you are nothing, you desire to become;
In desiring to become, you begin to live.

Я мертв, потому что у меня нет устремлений
У меня нет устремлений, потому что я думаю, что обладаю
Я думаю, что обладаю, потому что не пытаюсь дать
Пытаясь дать, понимаешь, что у тебя ничего нет
Поняв, что у тебя ничего нет, пытаешься отдать себя
Пытаясь отдать себя, понимаешь, что ты ничто
Поняв, что ты ничто, ты стремишься стать
Стремясь стать, ты начинаешь жить.