You would not believe what I have accomplished in the past week.
No, suicide is still a hypothesis. I claim the right to doubt suicide the same way I doubt the rest of reality. For the instant and until further notice, one must horrifically doubt not existence, strictly speaking, which is within the grasp of pretty much anyone, but the internal undermining and the profound sensitivity of things, of acts, of reality. I believe in nothing to which I’m not attached by the sensitivity of a thinking and meteoric cord, and even so I am lacking a few too many meteors in action. The constructed and feeling existence of all men bothers me, and I resolutely abominate all reality. Suicide is nothing but the fabulous and far-off conquest of men who think straight, but the state itself is incomprehensible to me. The suicide of a neurasthenic lacks any representative value, but the mental state of a man who would have carefully determined his suicide, the material circumstances, and the moment of the pulling of the trigger is marvelous. I am ignorant of things, I am ignorant of everything concerning the human state; nothing of the world revolves for or in me. I suffer terribly from life. I can’t attain any state. And it is absolutely certain that I have long been dead: I already committed suicide. That is to say, I was suicided. But what would you think of an anterior suicide, of a suicide that would make us go back to where we started, but to the other side of existence and not that of death. That one alone would be of value to me. I have no appetite for death; I feel an appetite to not be, to never descend into the pleasures of the imbecilities, abdications, renunciations and obtuse encounters that are the self of Antonin Artaud and are much weaker than he. The self of that wandering sick man who from time to time proposes his shadow, upon which he himself has for a long time spit, this dragging, lame self, this virtual and impossible self, that even so finds itself in reality. No one has felt his weakness so much as he, which is the principal and essential weakness of humanity. To be destroyed, to not exist.
Antonin Artaud, in response to the inquiry “Is Suicide a Solution?,” published in issue no. 2 of La Révolution Surréaliste, January 15th, 1925 (via ljosio)
The human phenomenon is but the sum
Of densely coiled layers of illusion
Each of which winds itself on the supreme insanity
That there are persons of any kind
When all there can be is mindless mirrors
Laughing and screaming as they parade about
in an endless dream
Normally I didn’t see a great deal. I didn’t hear a great deal either. I didn’t pay attention. Strictly speaking I wasn’t there. Strictly speaking I believe I’ve never been anywhere.
Samuel Beckett, The End