Stephane Mallarme on Language, Literature and Aesthetics

It’s just like the fan for the people of the Far East, for those of Spain and the delicious uneducated – with this difference, that this other wing of paper is livelier, infinitely so; and succinct in its unfolding, hiding the site to bring back against the lips of a mute painted flower, as the untouched empty word of reverie is brought closer by the fan’s beating.

Because they draw from an inkwell with no Night in it

writing, that speechless flight if abstractions, reclaims its rights over and against the downward pull of naked sounds: both of them, Music and Writing, calling for a preliminary splitting off, from speech, for fear, to be sure, of supplying idle talk.

It is the same contradictory adventure: into it the latte plunges, from it the former flees: but not without taking the original transparent tissue with them.

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