Going through my notes, trying to create order from chaos. I must repost this…
A thoughtful qoute from Michel Serres – The Parasite. You simply have to love this man. The work is padded with noise, but then, just as you#039re about to decide that the man is crazy, he manages to pull it off:
What is a work? It eats its worker, devouring his flesh and his time; it is slowly substituted for his body. This invasion causes fear. Who am I? This, there, written in black on white, fragile, and this is my body, has taken the place of my body, frail.
This is written in my blood; I am bleeding from it, and it will stop only with the last drop. The work parasites the worker; no, soon he no longer exists. He dies of it. And he can do noting about it. He lives from it.
I eat my work and from it; I drink this streaming production daily. I sleep under the tent of its tabernacle in the expanse of its space; I exist in the shade of it volumes-fruits.
Who am I? This body, united in its crucible – I would be nothing without this. The work parasites me, and I parasite it.
Soon, perhaps, we will be wise fellows together at dinner. Soon, let us hope, we will be adapted to each other at a joyous banquet, both light and perpetual, where we will share ambrosia.
Yes, I know, my life is becomming symbiotic.
—-
Mer skåpmat:
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