Today I learned of the death of Roger Munier , which occurred on 10 August. "The writer Roger Munier, translator of Martin Heidegger and Octavio Paz and specialist Arthur Rimbaud, died on Tuesday at the age of 87 years," said the note in my Google widespread.
is curious, but not strange, that the death note to remind the writer in his role as critic and translator; is curious because his vast figured prominently poetry titles (why there was no reference in the first place Munier "poet"? To me the news of his death made me think a moment , in a phrase of Cocteau : "Death of a poet is very serious, because a poet is something more than a man), but basically it is not unusual because, perhaps as few, Munier could say that as an author was a real author ( Barthes, Foucault, Agamben ), Or writing someone who could do no more to go.
knew better than anyone ( Munier "translator") that every word is word of another, and also (Munier "poet", Munier "man") that the self as a unit it is an illusion (" Besides myself, am I "), the complete, total, is absent because it is always divided, and it is an I in a subject when is not only the effect of otherness. Because I knew (with Nerval, Rimbaud ) that "I is another", that being has to be another ( Paz), and the word-for taking the role of field language, and dwarfs the subject engages loss-while is the only way it has to appear to get lost in the alleys sense and always being late to meet the Another (in a "been there," the former future speaking Lacan), to exhibit, to turn-on be speaker-his lack of being. Roger Munier
knew ( Munier "writer") that all that unfolds against a backdrop of unspeakable, that is not an impossible stops not being written, because what is not written. ("Writing is a fever about things, which basically says no fever but not things.") Perhaps so I thought that writing, when writing real (literalization the subject), leads a fading , to disappearance. ("The actual writing itself is subtracted from itself, continuously. The last word ratifies stolen"). Missing
among the living ("Death ... finally will open myself arms"), how to remember Roger Munier ? "As a" poet of thought, "someone who did something so strange, so difficult to achieve as a happy meeting between poetry and philosophical reflection? ( Munier " poet " Munier "philosopher", "Munier translator and friend of Heidegger " Munier " translator of Octavio Paz" ). It might be worth remembering as a man who wanted to write in the shade, but whose word malgré lui, could not escape the light. In his work, the voice of the subject type appears to arise from a chiaroscuro (as in the ellipsis of the subject of writing Baroque spoken of evoking Sarduy Lacan), and plan on things some light that gets into the shade ( "Life destroys life. pensamiento.La thinking destroys the reality destroys the reality" ) So it seemed to me to re-read your ... "Aphorisms?, Chiseled flashing of thought, flashes of brilliant poetry in the fund may not poetry or philosophy, but fragments, voices spelled a work that, as I said another entry in my Google-" mimics the world as a pullout. As he resists any interpretation, it is called requires and demands a listen. "
The latter made me think that the work of Roger Munier approaches perhaps something more intimate, secret, the experience of psychoanalysis.
fragments
Here again, it took "almost" at random from his book Glimpses :
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The light does not show things as they are. The is of, it seems that the dress, to see them. Without this dress would not be visible. But not this dress.
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All that happens is a sign or wonder happen as before. Admirably above.
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think when I write, and write it in a dead language.
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Write to the way everything is done: as a loss.
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pregnant The possible reality, it hinders. And, mixing, dilute it strangely unrealized.
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I do what I want. But to do so, but I do not want what I do.
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The sense is in Exodus, through all the senses.
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Being not last but by doing, that hides it.
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more than it is, man is what could be. That can be shattered his being, and ultimately prevent it from being forever what could be.
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I have no memory, only memory.
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Everything is hard in a state of loss.
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hear what you say.
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Try know as what is not known, it is not known,
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The oddly real stands between ourselves and reality.
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When I think of myself in the past, it is not me who you think is in the past.
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Do you suffer? No. Something has torn the fabric of things. And that happens in you.
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We are but words, but to us something we are silent.
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We are but words, but to us something we are silent.
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Every word he says: I speak, am I not speak, said only: I am.
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When I say the world is real , when you say is no longer true, as the real can not be said.
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What we love in the truth not the truth, but it is true.
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The existence and that the existence: being, every being, is an enclosure.
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Truth is not reality. The truth is not "real." There is no truth in reality. There is only reality.
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Life has an end: death. But perhaps death has no end ... Perhaps it never ends in death.
*** All end is sad, even that of what is sad, as an end.
(From Radiance, Mexico, Award, 1988, trans. De Marco Antonio Campos)
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