我的奮鬥

Was wird gesucht von dem Regen?

Was wird verschleiert von den grauen Wolken?

——獻給所有矛盾的靈魂

不知道是不是讀了太多Jane Austen，近來我開始產生一種幻覺：彷彿自己也像她筆下的人物一樣，活著的唯一目的及主要活動，就是交談。談論他人、談論自己，而要談論他人就不能不談他人對某些事情的想法，即便談論自己亦如是（實際上當我們在談論他人的時候就是在表達自己的想法——自己關於他人的想法）。於是乎，也只好來談一談這些想法。更進一步，人們的想法固然有時天馬行空，卻絕不會憑空生出，每一個念頭、每一份思緒，靜下來細想時往往都有些緣由。於是，對於這些想法，逐漸地，我們也會生出一些想法來。那麼，談到想法時，也就不能免地要談一談對於這些想法的想法，ad infinitum。

The simple synthetic acts with which we have so far concerned ourselves were so founded upon straightforward percepts that the synthetic intention was subsidiarily directed to the objects of these founding percepts, inasmuch as it held them together to a relational unity. This is a universal character of synthetic acts as such. We now turn to examples from another set of categorical acts, in which the objects of the founding acts do not enter into the intention of the founded one, and would only reveal their close relation to it in relational acts. Here we have the field of the universal intuition - an expression which no doubt will not seem better to many than ‘wooden iron’.                                                                                                                                                                                             -- Logical Investigations, Investigations VI, Chapter 6, section 52"Universal objests constituting themselves in universal intuitions", Edmund Husserl

我真想知道當年海德格或梅洛龐帝讀到這裡，當 'wooden iron' 赫然浮現眼前，他們有沒有跟我一樣從椅子上摔下來，發現原來連這麼嚴肅的老師也會講笑話呀…

曼淯：

我想我將永遠不會忘記，今年， 西元2011年——而如果瑪雅人的預言是正確的，末日前的最後一年，我們一起度過的暑假。

「你的名字是廣島」
「而妳，妳的名字是納維爾」

Dear：

前些天有人向我談起了死亡與孤獨。

好久沒有寫日記了。

如果記憶不曾
被九月的雨水淘洗，

A moment of passion. A petrifying gaze. A gesture of lack. These are among the rare things we seek as men and women, creations out of people capable of desire. Yet we call such people lovers, mistaking the living for the dead, organic for mechanic. We simply have no name for those who desire, and hence follow all the ugly demands of love: support, comfort, encouragement, affection, eternity, and an ossified identity of the loving or the beloved, things virtually no one can give nor receive. We fool ourselves with the standard Anglo-American protestant discourse of love, and commit ourselves to the sin of life.
“Love” is such a dirty word. And I will not feel sorry for that.

在《浮士德》的結尾，歌德寫道：
變化無常的一切，