#french philosophy

[terrorignitis]

Georges Bataille, Erotism: Death and Sensuality

[totalkrieg]

Erotism by Georges Bataille

[a-lady-and-her-quill]

[azzehkarla]

‪when i get drunk and write lengthy, unreadable texts i’m told i need to stop drinking but when some French guys from the 60s do it it’s called philosophy ‬

[feralmelancholia]

Breathless (1960)

Dir. Jean Luc-Godard

[cosmonautroger]

[enlitment]

Walks up to a couple: Soo, which one of you is the Prussian-born monarch with emotional baggage and which is the overly dramatic French philosopher they can't help but keep throwing their money at?

[coolstrangerwhispers]

Camus’s Impressions of Rio de Janeiro

“The most striking contrast is provided by the ostentation of luxury in the modern palaces and the favelas. Never have luxury and misery seemed to me so insolently mingled.” This was one of the first impressions of the French-Algerian writer, journalist, and philosopher Albert Camus

The mist quickly disappears. And we see the lights of Rio running along the coast, the “Sugarloaf Mountain,” with four lights at its summit, and on the highest peak of the mountains, which seem to crush the city, an immense and woeful luminous Christ. (…) Brazilian drivers are either cheerful madmen or cold sadists. The confusion and anarchy of this traffic are only offset by one law, whatever the cost. (…) The most striking contrast is provided by the ostentation of luxury in the modern palaces and the favelas, sometimes just a hundred meters from luxury — kinds of bidonvilles [slums] clinging to the hillsides, without water or electricity, where a destitute population, both Black and white, lives. The women fetch water at the foot of the hills, where they line up, and carry back their supply in aluminum cans balanced on their heads like the “Kabyle” women. While they wait, an unbroken line of nickel-plated and silent animals of the American automobile industry passes in front of them. Never have luxury and misery seemed to me so insolently mingled. It is indeed true that, according to one of my companions, “at least, they have fun.” Disgust and cynicism — B., the only generous one. He will take me to the favelas, which he knows well: “I was a crime reporter and a communist,” he says. “Two good conditions to know the neighborhoods of misery.”

On August 10, 1949, Camus left Brazil.

The country where the seasons blur into each other, where the impenetrable vegetation becomes shapeless, where blood has mingled to such an extent that the soul has lost its boundaries. The heavy downpour, the glaucous light of the forests, the coating of red dust that covers everything, the fusion of time, the slowness of rural life, the brief and senseless frenzy of the great cities — it is the country of indifference and hot blood.”