View source for All my plays are some sort of phone and the reflection connected with nostalgia

“How curious that will be, precisely how curious this can be, ” as they roul&eacute;-boul&eacute; in The Bald Voz, no roots, zero foundation, no authenticity, certainly no, nothing at all, only unmeaning, and even absolutely no higher power—though the particular Emperor turns up invisibly inside the Chairs, as from a “marvelous dream ., the divino gaze, the particular noble experience, the crown, the radiance of Their Majesty, ” the Ancient Man's “last recourse” (149–50), as he or she affirms, prior to he entrusts the message to the Orator together with throws himself out this window, causing us to discover that the Orator is deaf and stupid. Thus the delusion associated with hierarchy and, spoken or maybe unspoken, the futile mirror or vacuity of presentation. But even more inquiring, “what a good coincidence! ” (17) is how this specific vacant datensatz (fachsprachlich) of this Absurd grew to be the litany of deconstruction, which shrubs its table bets, however, with a devastating nothingness by means of letting metaphysics throughout following presumably rubbing it, that is, putting it “under erasure” (sous rature), while Derrida does in his / her grammatology, conceding what Nietzsche instructed us, that The almighty is dead, but using the statement anyhow, because we can hardly imagine without it, or maybe other transcendental signifiers, like elegance or eternity—which are really, without a doubt, the words spoken by way of the Old Man in order to the hidden Belle inside The Chairs, grieving exactly what they didn't dare, a good lost love, “Everything . lost, lost, lost” (133).<br />There would appear to help be parody here, and even one might expect the fact that Ionesco—in a distinctive line of descent from Nietzsche to be able to poststructuralist thought—would not only refuse the older metaphysics yet laugh as well on the ridiculousness of virtually any nostalgia for the idea, because for the originary time of a radiant beauty endowed with Platonic truth. And even the Orator who is found dressed as “a normal painter or poet in the nineteenth century” (154) can be, with his histrionic fashion and even conceited air, undoubtedly not necessarily Lamartine, which asks “Eternit&eacute;, n&eacute;ant, pass&eacute;, sombre ab&icirc;me” (“Eternity, nothingness, past—dark abyss”) to return the sublime raptures they have got stolen; nor is he / she remotely the figure regarding Keats with his Grecian urn, teasing us out there of thought in equating beauty and simple fact. Precisely what we have as a substitute, throughout Am&eacute;d&eacute;e or Learn how to get Free of It, is this hypnotic beauty of that which, when they forget to close the lids, reflects from the eyes, which often haven't aged—“Great green eyes. Pointing like [http://www.gsjh.tyc.edu.tw/~forever/userinfo.php?uid=2145507 career] ”—of typically the incurably growing corpse. “We might get along without his / her form of elegance, ” claims Madeleine, the sour together with bitter girlfriend, “it calls for up very much living space. ” Although Am&eacute;d&eacute;e is usually fascinated by the transfiguring growth of the ineluctable presence, which might attended from the abyss of what on earth is lost, lost, lost. “He's growing. It's pretty natural. He's branching out there. ”3 But if will be certainly anything wonderful here, it seems to come—if certainly not from the Romantic time period or one of typically the more memorable futurist images, Boccioni's The Body Ascending (Am&eacute;d&eacute;e's family name is usually Buccinioni)—from another poetic origin: “That corpse you grown last year in your own garden, / Has the idea begun in order to sprout? ” It's as though Ionesco had been picking up, literally, T. S. Eliot's issue in The Waste Land: “Will it bloom this season? ”4 If the idea not really only plants, or perhaps balloons, but lures away, consuming Am&eacute;d&eacute;e along with it, this oracle involving Keats's urn—all you know on earth plus all you need for you to know—seems a new far yowl from the hilarious mordancy of this transcendence, or even what in The Chairs, even if the Orator had talked, might have radiated upon offspring, or even from the eye of a corpse, by the light on the Old Man's mind (157).<br />But the truth is that, for Ionesco, the Silly can be predicated on “the memory space of a memory space of a memory” associated with an actual pastoral, splendor and truth inside nature, if not quite but in art. Or thus that appears in “Why Do you Write? A Summing Upwards, ” where he / she summons up his childhood at the Mill of the Chapelle-Anthenaise, a new farm inside St-Jean-sur-Mayenne, “the nation, the particular bar, the hearth. ”5 Whatever it was there he didn't fully grasp, such as priest's questions at his or her first croyance, it seemed to be presently there, very, that he was “conscious of staying alive. … My spouse and i been around, ” this individual states, “in happiness, joy, figuring out for some reason that each moment seemed to be fullness without knowing often the word bloatedness. I were living in a new sort of dazzlement. ” Whatever next transpired to impair this particular radiant time, the dazzle remains in memory, as a thing some other than fool's silver: “the world has been gorgeous, and I was aware of it, everything was refreshing and pure. I do: it is to discover this attractiveness again, complete in the mud”—which, like a site of the particular Silly, he shares together with Beckett—“that I write fictional works. All my literature, all my works are usually a call, the reflection of a nostalgia, a new research for a treasure buried around the water, lost within the catastrophe connected with history” (6).