Melancholia is, I believe, a musical problem: a dissonance, a change in rhythm. While on the outside everything happens with the vertiginous rhythm of a cataract, on the inside is the exhausted adagio of drops of water falling from time to tired time. For this reason the outside, seen from the melancholic inside, appears absurd and unreal, and constitutes ‘the farce we must all play’. But for an instant - because of a wild music, or a drug, or the sexual act carried to a climax - the very slow rhythm of the melancholic soul does not only rise to that of the outside world: it overtakes it with an ineffably blissful exorbitance, and the soul then thrills animated by delirious new energies.
Alejandra Pizarnik, The Bloody Countess (1971)
(extracted from a lengthier, stunningly suggestive extract posted by lecollecteur)
(Source: gwranda, via realityintolerant)
