#demonism

“The mysterious need to abandon yourself to the sea, to scatter yourself in the vain turmoil of all seas...”

“Have you ever looked at the sea in its moments of boredom? As if stirring its waves out of disgust with itself. Sending them away never to return. But they come back, they return incessantly. As do we. Who returns us to ourselves, when we most struggle to gain distance?”

“But the chords of misery entwine with those of the sea, in a voluptuous and heartbreaking harmony that throws us to the outside of mortals’ fate. And thus the tone of the sea is that of an eternal death, of an ending that does not end, of a blooming agony.”

“But the chords of misery entwine with those of the sea, in a voluptuous and heartbreaking harmony that throws us to the outside of mortals’ fate. And thus the tone of the sea is that of an eternal death, of an ending that does not end, of a blooming agony.”

“You do not need a heart fallen ill to nuances nor a sentiment touched by the subtleties of ecstasy in order to capture a mortal thrill in the songs of the sea, but an inclination towards the mysteries and voices of melancholy.”

“Then you are no longer sure of your identity—you have to gather yourself, to trawl yourself incessantly as to not be swallowed by inner and outer seas—controlling yourself only between four walls. The calls of the distances push you farther from the reckoning of your existence.”

“Nowhere other than in front of the sea are you inclined to regard the world as a prelude to the soul. And nowhere are you more capable of a religious thrill through the simple act of looking.”

(Fragments of an Eternal Holiday, 1938)

“The sea is a temptation of extinction only for those who discovered it during days and nights of introspection. Facing it, you only gaze into the abyss of those days and of those nights.”

“Marine demonism is an aromatic disaster, a ruin we cannot refuse without stepping on what is deep within us. A noble decomposition that we must cultivate like a garden and that we must be proud of.”

“And then, does blood not tremble in a marine rhythm; its melancholic ego, is it not tuned to the ever-moving and infinite blue wound? To this vast and liquid suffering, in order to fulfill a taste for immeasurable pains, to quench a thirst for unsurpassed miseries?”