chimeric chronicles

I waste my vigilance on trivia, kneeling before the insignificant as if it were fate. Habits—those obedient little tyrants—drain me while pretending to sustain me. Thus it goes when one is merely human: condemned to care for what does not deserve even contempt.

For me, reading means flaying one’s own skin and calling it knowledge. A book does not console — it scratches, curses, tears illusions apart like a rabid dog tearing at truth. Whoever reads to be soothed should close the covers; whoever reads to burn should remain until the last ash.

In the subway’s metallic dawn, a man’s devouring gaze clings to a young woman’s bare knees like a confession he dare not utter. For some, her charm is a hymn to beauty’s tyranny; for others, merely a shortcut to hunger. Thus inspiration and appetite share the same stare.

I just finished your book and I felt completely immersed in your story. Experiencing your memories of Albania’s collapse, I couldn’t help but confront my own ideas of freedom and injustice. Your honesty and courage left me both moved and unsettled, questioning what dignity truly means.

Few directors possess the cruelty of genius needed to translate a novel like Satantango into cinema. Bela Tarr did not merely adapt—it imposed his vision, leaving a mark so profound it feels like an inexorable testament to the futility and grandeur of human obsession.

Fascism has grown polite: it dons fine suits, murmurs patriotism, and assures us with a smile that our chains are gilded. It no longer crushes openly—it whispers our servitude as virtue, making obedience appear as the highest form of care.

“The bureaucratic assemblage and the familial assemblage are the two poles between which Kafka’s characters circulate.”

— Gilles Deleuze & Félix Guattari, Kafka: Toward a Minor Literature

"Others write because they have something to say; Beckett writes because language itself wants to resign."

— E. M. Cioran on Beckett

DEMONS by Dostoevsky is not a novel of a nation but of infestation. Ideas hatch in the skull and feed on the heart. They invoke mankind only to taste adoration. I watch them genuflect before their own inventions. Each rebel becomes relic; each martyr, a receipt signed by Nothing.

Reading The Transparency of Evil by Jean Baudrillard feels like staring at a world where nothing is forbidden anymore, and thus nothing matters. Evil dissolves into normality; the scandal is not crime but banality—when everything is exposed, meaning quietly dies.

I sit in a small café while snow erases the street into a pale silence. My coffee cools between my hands. I wonder if, somewhere under a warmer sky, another tired soul pauses mid-sip and feels the same heavy drift of hours settling like dust inside the chest tonight.

Naturally. The devil exists only as a phantom, a mask for our own forbidden whims. He serves not as master but as convenient scapegoat for the passions we dare not own.

Why blame the Germans?' Millions have fallen for the pharmaceutical rites of the [Covid] vaccine, and we turn a blind eye, feigning ignorance. Aren't we their mirror, just as guilty in our silence, just as complicit in this charade?

Die politische Menagerie hat ihre Fähigkeit verloren, mich zu erschüttern; selbst das Abscheulichste wirkt inzwischen routiniert. Ihre Galerie — ein Aquarium zweifelhafter Organismen, die vom Lärm ihrer eigenen Wichtigkeit leben.

Through Dostoevsky, Kafka, Bernhard, Sade, Rimbaud perceives a cruel pulse in language itself; to read them in translation is to touch shadows, to hear only echoes. One must plunge into the tongue they bled in, to taste the dark, trembling spell of their words.

Rain drips, confessing what I refuse to hear. Kaia laughs, bathed in parental light. I rot in hesitation—movie or book? The choice, a petty torment. Indecision coils, perverse in its sweetness, exalting the futility of desire and the decadent luxury of silence.

“Be with me always — take any form — drive me mad! Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!”

— Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë

“No one has gone further than Proust in revealing that the beloved is only a mirror trembling before the abyss.”

— Georges Bataille
(La Littérature et le mal, 1957)

Words are my exile and my asylum. Each sentence a barricade against the world’s roar, each paragraph a hollowed sanctuary where despair dissolves into ink. In writing, I am nowhere and yet untouchably present, a fugitive of life hiding in the brittle skin of letters.

“One night, around four in the morning, I was more awake than I ever am in broad daylight. I thought of Paul Celan — it is in such nights, I imagined, that he might have suddenly resolved to end his life.”

— E. M. Cioran

I do not wish to write a book; I wish to wound the page until it confesses. A book is only a corpse of fever, bound and polite. What burns in me refuses binding. If I write, it will not be literature but an infection — a testimony that I have not agreed to survive quietly.

What I love about Dostoyevsky is how he seizes the tiniest, most overlooked soul and drags it screaming into the light—suddenly, a nobody is unforgettable, a whisper becomes a roar, and every shadow hides a mind that burns.

I was reading an essay—one of those moral shop windows where “genius” is exhibited like a relic. They say Kierkegaard, after Either/Or, was so hounded by the herd that he crept out only at night. The crowd barks; the Unique One walks alone—daylight is for the obedient.

Dante did not love Beatrice as men love women; he loved her as a wound loves the knife that made it sacred. She was less a woman than a horizon — unreachable, luminous — and in pursuing her, he learned that love is the only fire that turns exile into eternity.

“I have found the definition of Beauty — it is something ardent and sad.”

— Charles Baudelaire, in a letter to Madame Sabatier

"Don't Look Up" is a sharp, dark satire of our era—an apocalyptic mirror showing how distraction, denial, and media spectacle can drown urgent truth. It’s both absurd and painfully real, a warning: ignoring the obvious doesn’t stop it from coming.

Char’s letters to Celan are not merely correspondence but acts of vigil. In a century shattered by catastrophe, he offers not consolation, but solidarity — a poetry stripped of ornament, where love stands as the last moral space left after beauty has burned.

"In our darkness there is no a single place for beauty. All the place is for love.”

— René Char, letter to Paul Celan, 1959

“You are what I’m going to dream about tonight, what will dream me tonight. (Dreaming or being dreamed?) A stranger, I, in someone else’s dream. I never await you; I always awake you. When somebody dreams of us together – that is when we shall meet.”

— Marina Zwetajewa to Rainer Maria Rilke

EXTINCTION is not a novel but a controlled detonation. Thomas Bernhard does not narrate—he eradicates. Family, homeland, memory: all dragged to the scaffold of thought and executed without prayer. What remains is ash that still speaks, a monologue against inherited rot and obedient silence.