Blanchot na UnB

Já que é coisa rara e ninguém está divulgando na internet:

Lembrando que o evento é do Grupo de Estudos Blanchotianos da UnB.

Maurice Blanchot – 22 de Setembro de 1907 – 20 de Fevereiro de 2003.

provas rabiscadas e corrigidas de Blanchot – III

Descubro através do blog de Literatura Moderna e Manuscritos da Houghton Library (citado no post anterior) que a pessoa que detém os direitos autorais das obras de Blanchot – Cidalia Fernandes Blanchot, de resto citada por Derrida no necrológio que proferiu na cremação de Blanchot – proibiu o blog de mostrar as imagens das provas, que felizmente ainda constam no diretório de imagens do blog. Seguindo o exemplo do catatau, abaixo as três que faltavam:

provas rabiscadas e corrigidas de Blanchot – II

Pra se ter uma idéia do que são os manuscritos de L´Entretien Infini comprados pela Houghton Library de Harvard e mencionados no post anterior, segue uma imagem que achei no twitter:

provas de livro de Blanchot compradas por Harvard

Coisa rara:

Houghton Library recently acquired page proofs of Blanchot’s 1969 major work,L’Entretien Infini (The Infinite Conversation).  Blanchot seemingly did not preserve the records of his literary work; these were (according to the dealer from whom they were purchased) salvaged from a rubbish bin by the husband of Blanchot’s long-time housekeeper.  The proofs contain numerous handwritten annotations by Blanchot, along with typewritten sheets inserted into the proofs (of which some are small slips taped over pages, and some are multiple pages in length).  Four pages are pictured below (click on each one to enlarge it).

É, Blanchot mesmo, ao menos páginas manuscritas e rabiscadas, salvas pelo marido da empregada de Blanchot. Coisa rara, raríssima, e o preço ficou em £ 22127.46.

James Augustine Aloysius Joyce – 2 de Fevereiro de 1882 – 13 de Janeiro de 1941

Franz Kafka – 3 de Julho de 1883 – 3 de Junho de 1924

Édouard Manet – 23 de Janeiro de 1832 – 30 de Abril de 1883

Fernando Antônio Nogueira Pessoa – 13 de Junho de 1888 – 30 de Novembro de 1935

Terra, Julho de 1969, vista da Apollo 11

Foto: Boston Globe Big Picture

Edmund Gustav Albrecht Husserl – 8 de Abril de 1859 – 26 de Abril de 1938

Rainer Maria von Rilke – 4 de Dezembro de 1875 – 29 de Dezembro de 1926

Jacques Derrida – 15 de Julho de 1930 – 8 de Outubro de 2004

Paul-Michel Foucault – 15 de Outubro de 1926 – 25 de Junho de 1984

Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche – 15 de Outubro de 1844 – 25 de Agosto de 1900

Martin Heidegger – 26 de Setembro de 1889 – 26 de maio de 1976

Étienne Mallarmé – 18 de Março de 1842 – 9 de Setembro de 1898

Heidegger no guardian.co.uk

Simon Critchley tá falando de Heidegger no Guardian:

” Dasein is being-in-the-world. Our everyday existence is characterised by complete immersion in the ways of the world. The world fascinates us and my life is completely caught up in its rhythms and activities. The question Heidegger asks in Chapter 6 is: how is the being-in-the-world as a whole to be disclosed? Is there an experience where the world as such and as a whole is revealed to us? Is there a mood in which we pull back from the world and see it as something distinct from us? Heidegger’s claim is that being-in-the-world as a whole is disclosed in anxiety and is then defined as care. As such, anxiety has an important methodological function in the argument of Being and Time.

But the existential resonance of anxiety is much more than methodological. The first thing to grasp is that anxiety does not mean ceaselessly fretting or fitfully worrying about something or other. On the contrary, Heidegger says that anxiety is a rare and subtle mood and in one place he even compares it a feeling of calm or peace. It is in anxiety that the free, authentic self first comes into existence. It was, of course, the mood that launched a thousand existentialist novels, most famously Sartre’s Nausea and Camus’s The Outsider (although Heidegger was very critical of existentialism).

In order to understand what Heidegger means by anxiety, we have to distinguish it from another mood he examines: fear. Heidegger gives a phenomenology of fear earlier in Being and Time. His claim is that fear is always fear of something threatening, some particular thing in the world. Let’s say that I am fearful of spiders. Fear has an object and when that object is removed, I am no longer fearful. I see a spider in the bath and I am suddenly frightened. My non-spider fearing friend removes the offending arachnid, I am no longer fearful.

Matters are very different with anxiety. If fear is fearful of something particular and determinate, then anxiety is anxious about nothing in particular and is indeterminate. If fear is directed towards some distinct thing in the world, spiders or whatever, then anxiety is anxious about being-in-the-world as such. Anxiety is experienced in the face of something completely indefinite. It is, Heidegger insists, “nothing and nowhere”.

But let’s back up for a moment here. Heidegger’s claim earlier in Division 1 of Being and Time (discussed in blog 3), is that the human being finds itself in a world that is richly meaningful and with which it is fascinated. In other words, the world is homely (heimlich), cosy even. In anxiety, all of this changes. Suddenly, I am overtaken by the mood of anxiety that renders the world meaningless. It appears to me as an inauthentic spectacle, a kind of tranquilised and pointless bustle of activity. In anxiety, the everyday world slips away and my home becomes uncanny (unheimlich) and strange to me. From being a player in the game of life that I loved, I become an observer of a game that I no longer see the point in playing.

What is first glimpsed in anxiety is the authentic self. As the world slips away, we obtrude. I like to think about this in maritime terms. Inauthentic life in the world is completely bound up with things and other people in a kind of “groundless floating” – the phrase is Heidegger’s. Everyday life in the world is like being immersed in the sea and drowned by the world’s suffocating banality. Anxiety is the experience of the tide going out, the seawater draining away, revealing a self stranded on the strand, as it were. Anxiety is that basic mood when the self first distinguishes itself from the world and becomes self-aware.

Anxiety does not need darkness, despair and night sweats. It can arise in the most innocuous of situations: sitting in the subway distractedly reading a book and overhearing conversations, one is suddenly seized by the feeling of meaninglessness, by the radical distinction between yourself and the world in which you find yourself. With this experience of anxiety, Heidegger says, Dasein is individualised and becomes self-aware.

Anxiety is the first experience of our freedom, as a freedom from things and other people. It is a freedom to begin to become myself. Anxiety is perhaps the philosophical mood par excellence, it is the experience of detachment from things and from others where I can begin to think freely for myself. Yet, as Heidegger was very well aware, anxiety is also a mood that is powerfully analysed in the Christian tradition, from Augustine to Kierkegaard, where it describes the self’s effort to turn itself, to undergo a kind of conversion. Heidegger’s difference with Christianity is that the self’s conversion is not undergone with reference to God, but only in relation to death, which is the topic of next week’s blog. “

trecho d´A Loucura do Dia

« É minha existência melhor que a dos outros ? Talvez. Tenho um teto, vários não o tem. Não tenho  lepra, não sou cego. Vejo o mundo, alegria extraordinária. Eu o vejo, esse dia fora do qual não há nada. Quem poderia tirar isso de mim ? E quando esse dia se apagar, me apagarei junto com ele, pensamento e certeza que me transportam. Amei as pessoas, as perdi. Fiquei louco quando aquele golpe me atingiu, porque é um inferno. Mas minha loucura permaneceu sem testemunho, meu extravio não aparecia, só minha intimidade era louca. Algumas vezes, ficava furioso. Me diziam: « por que está tão calmo ? »; porém eu queimava dos pés à cabeça. À noite corria as ruas, uivava; de dia trabalhava tranquilamente. Pouco depois, a loucura do mundo se libertara. Fui colocado frente ao muro como vários outros. Por que ? Por nada. Os fuzis não dispararam. Eu dizia a mim mesmo: Deus, que fazes ? Daí cessei de ser insensato. O mundo hesitara, e então retomara seu equilíbrio. Com a razão, a memória me retornava e eu via que mesmo nos piores dias, quando me acreditava perfeitamente e inteiramente miserável, eu era no entanto e a quase todo o tempo extremamente feliz. Isso me dara o que pensar. Essa descoberta não me era agradável. E parecia que estava perdendo muito. Eu me interrogava: não era triste, não tinha sentido minha vida partir-se ? Sim, foi isso; mas a cada minuto, quando me levantava e corria pelas ruas, ou quando permanecia imóvel num canto de quarto, o frescor da noite, a estabilidade do solo me faziam respirar e confiar na alegria. Os homens queriam escapar à morte, espécie bizarra. E alguns gritariam, morrer, morrer, porque queriam escapar da vida. « Que vida, eu me mato, eu me rendo ». Isso é lamentável e estranho. É um erro. E no entanto eu encontrei seres que jamais disseram à vida: cale-se; e jamais disseram à morte: vá-se. Quase sempre mulheres, essas belas criaturas. Os homens, o terror os assola, a noite os penetra, eles vêem seus planos aniquilados, seu trabalho reduzido à poeira; estupefatos, eles, tão importantes que queriam criar o mundo; tudo desaba. Posso descrever minha experiência ? Eu não podia nem caminhar, nem respirar, nem me nutrir. Meu hálito era de pedra, meu corpo d´água, e no entanto eu morria de sede. Uma dia, me enterraram no chão, os médicos me cobriram de lama. Que trabalho no fundo daquela terra ! Quem a diz fria ? É o fogo, é um arbusto de espinhos. Eu me levantava totalmente insensível. Meu tato errava à dois metros de distância: se entrassem em meu quarto eu gritaria, mas a faca me cortava tranquilamente. Sim, eu me tornara um esqueleto. Minha magreza, de noite, surgia diante de mim para me aterrorizar. Ela me insultava, me fatigava com seus ires e vires. Ah, eu estava muito cansado. »

- Maurice Blanchot

noite de julho em brasília

Foto: Bruno Arantes

The Hunter Gracchus – Kafka

Two boys were sitting on the wall by the jetty playing dice. A man was reading a newspaper on the steps of a monument in the shadow of a hero wielding a sabre. A young girl was filling her tub with water at a fountain. A fruit seller was lying close to his produce and looking out to sea. Through the empty openings of the door and window of a bar two men could be seen drinking wine in the back. The landlord was sitting at a table in the front dozing. A small boat glided lightly into the small harbour, as if it were being carried over the water. A man in a blue jacket climbed out onto land and pulled the ropes through the rings. Behind the man from the boat, two other men in dark coats with silver buttons carried a bier, on which, under a large silk scarf with a floral pattern and fringe, a person was obviously lying. No one bothered with the newcomers on the jetty, even when they set the bier down to wait for their helmsman, who was still working with the ropes. No one came up to them, no one asked them any questions, no one took a closer look at them.

The helmsman was further held up a little by a woman with disheveled hair, who now appeared on deck with a child at her breast. Then he moved on, pointing to a yellowish, two-story house which rose close by, directly on the left near the water. The bearers took up their load and carried it through the low door furnished with slender columns. A small boy opened a window, noticed immediately how the group was disappearing into the house, and quickly shut the window again. The door now closed, as well. It had been fashioned with care out of black oak wood. A flock of doves, which up to this point had been flying around the bell tower, came down in front of the house. The doves gathered before the door, as if their food was stored inside the house. One flew right up to the first floor and pecked at the window pane. They were brightly coloured, well cared for, lively animals. With a large sweep of her hand the woman threw some seeds towards them from the boat. They ate them up and then flew over to the woman.

A man in a top hat with a mourning ribbon came down one of the small, narrow, steeply descending lanes which led to the harbour. He looked around him attentively. Everything upset him. He winced at the sight of some garbage in a corner. There were fruit peels on the steps of the monument. As he went by, he pushed them off with his cane. He knocked on the door of the parlour, while at the same time taking off his top hat with his black-gloved right hand. It was opened immediately, and about fifty small boys, lined up in two rows in a long corridor, bowed to him.

The helmsman came down the stairs, welcomed the gentleman, and led him upstairs. On the first floor he accompanied him around the slight, delicately built balcony surrounding the courtyard, and, as the boys crowded behind them at a respectful distance, both men stepped into a large cool room at the back of the house. From it one could not see a facing house, only a bare gray-black rock wall. Those who had carried the bier were busy setting up and lighting some long candles at its head. But these provided no light. They only made the previously still shadows positively jump and flicker across the walls. The shawl was pulled back off the bier. On it lay a man with wildly unkempt hair and beard and a brown skin—he looked rather like a hunter. He lay there motionless, apparently without breathing, his eyes closed, although his surroundings were the only the only thing indicating that it could be a corpse.

The gentleman stepped over to the bier, laid a hand on the forehead of the man lying there, then knelt down and prayed. The helmsman gave a sign to the bearers to leave the room. They went out, drove away the boys who had gathered outside, and shut the door. The gentleman, however, was apparently still not satisfied with this stillness. He looked at the helmsman. The latter understood and went through a side door into the next room. The man on the bier immediately opened his eyes, turned his face with a painful smile towards the gentleman, and said, “Who are you?” Without any surprise, the gentleman got up from his kneeling position and answered, “The burgomaster of Riva.” The man on the bier nodded, pointed to a chair by stretching his arm out feebly, and then, after the burgomaster had accepted his invitation, said, “Yes, I knew that, Burgomaster, but in the first moments I’ve always forgotten it all—everything is going in circles around me, and it’s better for me to ask, even when I know everything. You also presumably know that I am the hunter Gracchus.”

“Of course,” said the burgomaster. “I received the news today, during the night. We had been sleeping for some time. Then around midnight my wife called, ‘Salvatore’—that’s my name—‘look at the dove at the window!’ It was really a dove, but as large as a rooster. It flew up to my ear and said, ‘Tomorrow the dead hunter Gracchus is coming. Welcome him in the name of the city.”

The hunter nodded and pushed the tip of his tongue between his lips. “Yes, the doves fly here before me. But do you believe, Burgomaster, that I am to remain in Riva?”

“That I cannot yet say,” answered the burgomaster. “Are you dead?”

“Yes,” said the hunter, “as you see. Many years ago—it must have been a great many years ago—I fell from a rock in the Black Forest—that’s in Germany—as I was tracking a chamois. Since then I’ve been dead.”

“But you’re also alive,” said the burgomaster.

“To a certain extent,” said the hunter, “to a certain extent I am also alive. My death boat lost its way—a wrong turn of the helm, a moment when the helmsman was not paying attention, a deviation through my wonderful homeland—I don’t know what it was. I only know that I remain on the earth and that since that time my boat has journeyed over earthly waters. So I—who only wanted to live in my own mountains—travel on after my death through all the countries of the earth.”

“And have you no share in the world beyond?” asked the burgomaster wrinkling his brow.

The hunter answered, “I am always on the immense staircase leading up to it. I roam around on this infinitely wide flight of steps, sometimes up, sometimes down, sometimes to the right, sometimes to the left, always in motion. From being a hunter I’ve become a butterfly. Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not laughing,” protested the burgomaster.

“That’s very considerate of you,” said the hunter. “I am always moving. But when I go through the greatest upward motion and the door is already shining right above me, I wake up on my old boat, still drearily stranded in some earthly stretch of water. The basic mistake of my earlier death smirks at me in my cabin. Julia, the wife of the helmsman, knocks and brings to me on the bier the morning drink of the country whose coast we are sailing by at the time. I lie on a wooden plank bed, wearing—I’m no delight to look at—a filthy shroud, my hair and beard, black and gray, are inextricably intertangled, my legs covered by a large silk women’s scarf, with a floral pattern and long fringes. At my head stands a church candle which illuminates me. On the wall opposite me is a small picture, evidently of a bushman aiming his spear at me and concealing himself as much as possible behind a splendidly painted shield. On board ship one comes across many stupid pictures, but this is one of the stupidest. Beyond that my wooden cage is completely empty. Through a hole in the side wall the warm air of the southern nights comes in, and I hear the water lapping against the old boat.

“I have been lying here since the time when I—the still living hunter Gracchus—was pursuing a chamois to its home in the Black Forest and fell. Everything took place as it should. I followed, fell down, bled to death in a ravine, was dead, and this boat was supposed to carry me to the other side. I still remember how happily I stretched myself out here on the planking for the first time. The mountains have never heart me singing the way these four still shadowy walls did then.

“I had been happy to be alive and was happy to be dead. Before I came on board, I gladly threw away my rag-tag collection of guns and bags, and the hunting rifle which I had always carried proudly, and slipped into the shroud like a young girl into her wedding dress. Here I lay down and waited. Then the accident happened.”

“A nasty fate,” said the burgomaster, raising his hand in a gesture of depreciation, “and you are not to blame for it in any way?”

“No,” said the hunter. “I was a hunter. Is there any blame in that? I was raised to be a hunter in the Black Forest, where at that time there were still wolves. I lay in wait, shot, hit the target, removed the skin—is there any blame in that? My work was blessed. ‘The great hunter of the Black Forest’—that’s what they called me. Is that something bad?”

“It not up to me to decide that,” said the burgomaster, “but it seems to me as well that there’s no blame there. But then who is to blame?”

“The boatswain,” said the hunter. “No one will read what I write here, no one will come to help me. If people were assigned the task of helping me, all the doors of all the houses would remain closed, all the windows would be shut, they would all lie in bed, with sheets thrown over their heads, the entire earth would be a hostel for the night. And that makes good sense, for no one knows of me, and if he did, he would have no idea of where I was staying, and if he knew that, he would still not know how to keep me there, and so he would not know how to help me. The thought of wanting to help me is a sickness and has to be cured with bed rest.

“I know that, and so I do not cry out to summon help, even if at moments—as I have no self-control, for example, right now—I do think about that very seriously. But to get rid of such ideas I need only look around and recall where I am and where—and this I can assert with full confidence—I have lived for centuries.”

“That’s extraordinary,” said the burgomaster, “extraordinary. And now are you intending to remain with us in Riva?”

“I have no intentions,” said the hunter with a smile and, to make up for his mocking tone, laid a hand on the burgomaster’s knee. “I am here. I don’t know any more than that. There’s nothing more I can do. My boat is without a helm—it journeys with the wind which blows in the deepest regions of death.”

A Loucura do Dia

Estou traduzindo La Folie du Jour, de Blanchot, para servir de apêndice à minha tese de mestrado. O relato foi vertido ao português somente em Portugal, por um certo Silva Carvalho, tradução da qual encontrei somente um registro na biblioteca nacional portuguesa, referente à edição de 1987 (original aparentemente em 1981), e nada mais. Claro que segundo meus propósitos o mais óbvio seria traduzir parte da obra ensaística de Blanchot, visto que a tese lida mormente com a parte ensaística da obra.Porém tendo sidos traduzidos no Brasil os principais livros desse tipo de Blanchot (O Espaço Literário, O Livro por Vir – recentemente – , A Parte do Fogo, A Conversa Infinita – do qual o terceiro volume encontra-se em vias de tradução, creio) e nada tendo sido ainda feito em termos da obra ficcional, pensei em traduzir algo diferente, um récit, que para quem não sabe é algo entre o conto e o romance. ” A Loucura do Dia ” é uma espécie de relato – se mesmo o conceito de relato aqui não for insuficiente – sobre a experiência de um alguém, alguém que narra, atravessado e dissolvido pela obra que relata. Esse autor, ao longo da narrativa, passa por alguma experiência – da qual só obtemos vestígios – que faz com que perca a visão, e a partir desse acontecimento se opera um deslocamento entre a visão e o poder de relatar, entre a escrita do relato e o relato ele próprio. Desse momento em diante a única versão do que aconteceu é a versão louca de quem experimentou esse acontecimento, justamente a única testemunha cuja ficção pouco fidedigna é a única da qual dispomos. Durante o decurso da coisa, o narrador se depara com a Lei – Lei que na figura dos médicos exige dele que fale, que dê vazão ao relato, que cubra a extensão do visível e mantenha suspensa sua distância em relação a esse todo; ” conte-nos como tudo se passou “, ” nada omita “. Mas o evento foi justamente o que operou a cesura entre toda possibilidade de encontro à distância entre o relato e a ficção que ele relata, entre a verdade da linguagem e a verdade da experiência. Então, no final, o  narrador e protagonista responde com as primeiras linhas do relato que acabamos de ler, e qual não é a surpresa do leitor que, logrado, percebe que o relato que ele acaba de ler é o relato desviado, o único relato que o narrador é capaz de entregar, forçado pela Lei. E a frase final, que diz

” Un récit ? Non, pas de récit, plus jamais “

Vem para confirmar essa suspeita. Está dada, tarde demais, a possibilidade da disjunção que é a narrativa; não essa em especial, mas toda narrativa. 

trechos – 7

“

C’est la dépouille mortelle que Blanchot choisit comme forme exemplaire de l’image et de la fascination qu’elle génère6. L’image n’est pas seulement du côté de la vie, du monde partagé et rassurant du travail et de la connaissance, mais aussi du côté de la mort et de la résistance obstinée qu’elle oppose à toute maîtrise. Elle partage avec la mort ce double sens initial qui “fait que la mort est tantôt le travail de la vérité dans le monde, tantôt la perpétuité de ce qui ne supporte ni commencement ni fin”7. Comme l’image, ce qu’on appelle dépouille mortelle échappe aux catégories communes : le cadavre n’est ni le même que celui qui était en vie, ni un autre, ni une “chose”. L’étrangeté du cadavre met en cause en premier lieu la position, le lieu, la possibilité même d’un séjour : si dans l’opinion commune le cadavre devrait enfin avoir trouvé son lieu propre, en réalité la mort implique tout autre chose que le repos et l’immobilité. Le lieu de la dépouille est toujours en défaut, le cadavre manque à sa place ; il n’est plus “ici-bas” et pas encore dans un “là-haut”. Comme pour l’écriture, pour le rêve, comme pour tout ce qui relève du domaine dangereux de l’image, la manière d’être du cadavre (s’il est licite de parler d’être de l’image) n’est pas simplement de ne pas être. Le cadavre se situe dans l’entre-deux qui sépare et réunit la vie et la mort, l’ “ici-bas” et le “làhaut”, comme l’image occupe une place d’absence entre la réalité qu’elle est censée représenter et sa transposition dans l’imaginaire.Le cadavre double le vivant, il lui ressemble parfaitement sans pourtant lui ressembler, plus beau, plus colossal, plus imposant que lui. Face au cadavre on fait l’expérience limite de la ressemblance par excellence, ressemblance qui ne ressemble à rien. Dans la mort, le défunt n’accomplit pas son identité, ma sa complète ressemblance qui le prive de toute identité, le transforme en “quelqu’un, image insoutenable et figure de l’unique devant n’importe quoi”8.”Demeurer n’est pas accessible à celui qui meurt”9, l’image est sans repos, la ressemblance cadavérique est une hantise, un éternel recommencement qui attaque la possibilité même d’un séjour pour les survivants. “Finalement, un terme doit être mis à l’interminable : on ne cohabite pas avec les morts sous peine de voir ici s’effondrer dans l’insondable nulle part “10 : l’ “ici” rassurant du cimetière est un “nulle part”, une tentative de mettre un terme à l’interminable.

Déjà l’usage linguistique qui appelle “mortelle” la dépouille semble être une vaine tentative de vouloir arrêter cette dérive de la mort, de la confiner dans cette variante souvent oubliée du corps, soumise à une mortalité qui devrait rester étrangère aux vivants (qui préfèrent oublier leur mortalité fondamentale), comme au défunt (qu’on situe déjà implicitement dans une dimension d’immortalité). “

- Manola Antolioli, Images et mimésis dans l’oeuvre de

Maurice Blanchot

trechos – 6 – L´Espace Littéraire – appendix

“For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,” says Hamlet, “when we have shuffled off this mortal coil . . .” The image, present behind each thing, and which is like the dissolution of this thing and its subsistence in its dissolution, also has behind it that heavy sleep of death in which dreams threaten. The image can, when it awakens or when we waken it, represent the object to us in a luminous formal aura; but it is nonetheless with substance that the image is allied — with the fundamental materiality, the still undetermined absence of form, the world oscillating between adjective and substantive before foundering in the formless prolixity of indetermination. Hence the passivity proper to the image — a passivity which makes us suffer the image even when we ourselves appeal to it, and makes its fugitive transparency stem from the obscurity of fate returned to its essence, which is to be a shade. But when we are face to face with things themselves — if we fix upon a face, the corner of a wall — does it not also sometimes happen that we abandon ourselves to what we see? Bereft of power before this presence suddenly strangely mute and passive, are we not at its mercy? Indeed, this can happen, but it happens because the thing we stare at has foundered, sunk into its image, and the image has returned into that deep fund of impotence to which everything reverts. The “real” is defined by our relation to it which is always alive. The real always leaves us the initiative, addressing in us that power to begin, that free communication with the beginning which we are. And as long as we are in the day, day is still just dawning. The image, according to the ordinary analysis, is secondary to the object. It is what follows. We see, then we imagine. After the object comes the image. “After” means that the thing must first take itself off a ways in order to be grasped. But this remove is not the simple displacement of a moveable object which would nevertheless remain the same. Here the distance is in the heart of the thing. The thing was there; we grasped it in the vital movement of a comprehensive action and now, having become image, instantly it has become that which no one can grasp, the unreal, the impossible. It is not the same thing at a distance but the thing as distance, present in its absence, graspable because ungraspable, appearing as disappeared. It is the return of what does not come back, the strange heart of remoteness as the life and the sole heart of the thing.”

Short Husserl

There are thus without doubt irreal objectivities and irreal truths belonging thereto.