On my desk

 

Fairytale no1

 

'I put it to the enlightened rationalist: has his rational reduction led to the beneficial control of matter and spirit? He will point proudly to the advances in physics and medicine, to the freeing of the mind from medieval stupidity and - as a well-meaning Christian - to our deliverance from the fear of demons. But we continue to ask: what have all our other cultural achievements led to? The fearful answer is there before our eyes: man has been delivered from no fear, a hideous nightmare lies upon the world. So far reason has betrayed us lamentably, and the very thing that everybody wanted to avoid rolls on in ghastly progression. Man has achieved a wealth of useful gadgets, but to offset that, he has torn open the abyss, and what will become of him now - where can he make a halt?'

CGJung     The phenomenology of the spirit in fairytales, 1948

sarajevo

 

ulaz

prikupljanje

 

zima

 

pokretanje

 

 molitva

metak-dokaz

On my desk

 

The remains of a rabbit-skin bag last used by Charming Baker when hunting rabbits 31 years ago. The box also contained a skull, some dried fruit, a length of brown shoe-lace, a bottle of pills, a sewing kit and a tiny pair of scissors.

There were no tattoos on the skin.

Borges' Dream

 

I dreamed I was awakening from another dream - an uproar of chaos and cataclysms - into an unrecognisable room. Day was dawning: light suffused the room, outlining the foot of the wrought-iron bed, the upright chair, the closed door and windows, the bare table. 

I thought fearfully, 'Where am I?' and I realised I didn't know. 

I thought 'Who am I?' and I couldn't recognise myself. 

My fear grew. 

I thought: This desolate awakening is in Hell, this eternal vigil will be my destiny. 

Then I really woke up, trembling.

JLB 1929

Fear and Trembling

If there were no eternal consciousness in a man, if at the bottom of everything there were only a wild ferment, a power that twisting in dark passions produced everything great or inconsequential; 

if an unfathomable, insatiable emptiness lay beneath everything, what would life be but despair?

Soren Kirkegaard 1843