Fai Ahmed > Fai's Quotes

“Every artist is linked to a mistake with which he has a particular intimacy. All art draws its origin from an exceptional fault, each work is the implementation of this original fault, from which comes a risky plenitude and new light.”
― Maurice Blanchot

“واحة من الرعب وسط صحراء من الضجر.”
― Charles Baudelaire

“What does it remember? Itself, death as memory. An immense
memory in which one dies.
First to forget. To remember only where one remembers nothing.
To forget: to remember everything as though by way of forgetting. There is
a profoundly forgotten point from which every memory radiates. Everything is exalted in memory from something which is forgotten, an infinitesimal detail, a minuscule fissure into which it passes in its entirety.”
― Maurice Blanchot, The Last Man

“I read a lot. I listen a lot. I think a lot. But so little remains. The books I read, their plots, their protagonists fade. The university lectures that I had found pretty impressive on first hearing, have faded away. Now I am listening to one on Pirandello. Names of people, books, cities. They are already fading away. Even the titles of films I’ve seen recently — they have already faded. Authors of thousands of books I’ve read... All that remains are the colours of their bindings, their covers. I don’t remember much about Beauty and the Beast, but I remember clearly, vividly the hear of the day as we were crossing the Rhine bridge, to see the film. Everything that I see, or red, or listen to, connects, translates into moods, bits of surroundings, colors. No, I am not a novelist. No precision of observation, detail. With me, everything is mood, mood, or else —simply nothingness.”
― Jonas Mekas, I Had Nowhere to Go

“Perhaps too much value is assigned to memory, not enough to thinking. Remembering is an ethical act, has ethical value in and of itself. Memory is, achingly, the only relation we can have with the dead.”
― Susan Sontag, Regarding the Pain of Others

“Like a snake, my heart
has shed its skin.
I hold it here in my hand,
full of honey and wounds.

- New Heart”
― Federico García Lorca