By Pseudo-Leopardi, A Necrezuta, F Pilastru, I Imaculata
Pseudo-Leopardi’s Cantos for the Crestfallen, right here translated for the 1st time from the Romanian unique, is a breathless expiration of very unlikely pessimo-mystical wants for the immanent past. In a series of thirty one verses channeling the spirits of Cioran, Dante, and the poet’s eponym, the Cantos testify to life’s senselessness, the need of being beheaded, and the affection of saints. it truly is an intoxicated and uncompromising imaginative and prescient: The identify of you / Who modify one atom of my sigh is now afflicted from lifestyles.
“Not in view that Die Nachtwachen (The Nightwatches), released in 1804 lower than the pseudonym of Bonaventura, a German Romantic of often-attributed but arguably nonetheless doubtful id, has there seemed any such booklet as Cantos for the Crestfallen. additionally written by way of an unknown hand, one soaking wet in a philosophy and poetics of an apocalyptic tone, the latter identify opponents its predecessor in either secret and depression. whilst that the authors of those works tear the masks from the darkish face of the inhuman comedy, they perform a reckless wit that makes the blackness of our lives blacker nonetheless. Cantos for the Crestfallen specifically flows with grotesque conceits that vacant into an ocean of tears, finally drowning its reader faraway from the sight of land, of domestic, and of hope.” – Thomas Ligotti
“Like his namesake-by-declamatio, the writer of Cantos for the Crestfallen has controlled to condense all human afflictions into one solitary fusion of depression, a distress with the teeth sufficient to chew the hand off each nescient and conciliatory phantasm. And but to underpin this breathless, virtually throttled, ennui (his personal sigh even “drowning in air”) there's the get to the bottom of and the bitterness of a love affair long past mistaken, the unrequited affections, the uncooked feels of the world’s interminable spurning; and it all a lie, a necrophile’s symphony tapped out by way of a middle made ash of, a middle crawling up a corkscrewed backbone to die within a brain.” – Gary J. Shipley
“Pseudo-Leopardi’s Cantos exhale a spirit of blackened occidental sufism that may make your head spiral.” – Pir Iqbal the Impaled
“From the enhaloed entrails of a forgotten workstation comes those Cantos for the Crestfallen. those poems describe not anything and enact everything—litanies of a moldering sun refusal.” – Rasu-Yong Tugen, Baroness de Tristeombre
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Extra resources for Cantos for the Crestfallen
Not to learn the secret, but simply how to live and die. Only the saints are ever born. The rest of us were never Here. Look and see how nearly everyone has given up, Sold experience for sleep and abandoned their lives. Who swims with them the monstrous abyss of charity, Paces the lost, remote speeds of their sleepless longing? Who can follow the sightless acceleration of their least? Without her help your very best is just another way To repeat yourself, only another day of sealing your fate: To die in sleep without ever having known the truth.
Because we did not kill ourselves yesterday, we are now Doing so today. It is no joy, but I can conceive of none Higher than this being pregnant with the death of birth. XXX A saint does not die without first silencing everything Within herself. No fading sun ever finds its reflection In her frozen tears. Her eyes wash away space and time. As her tears erase the time of space, so her sighs undo The space of time, leaving the astonishing sun of her face Through which the invisible cannot stop itself to shine.
XXII Yesterday has passed and tomorrow too. No time is Left for us, this much I know. This much I clearly see By the moon’s setting this morning beyond the window. Outside all is calm, without history for a few unwitnessed Minutes. Thank God people cannot prevent themselves From sleeping, from opting out of their sick insomnia. I wish a sleep greater still would fall upon the planet, Turn the blue earth into a vast floating tomb of slumber, So deep that waking would induce permanent amnesia. Then we might be done with all owning and begging, With the rampant idiocy of protestors and policemen, All the intolerable terroristic evil of the do-gooders.