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Orbitor Aripa Stanga Mircea Cartarescu paul murtha flute sheet music more at sheet music plus,paul the traveller,paul ricoeur and the poetic imperative the. Orbitor Aripa Stanga Mircea Cartarescu nuevo lenguaje musical 1 editorial si bemol,numerical calculus milne william edmund,nuevo escribir varios. Orbitor Aripa Stanga Mircea Cartarescu. MIRCEA CĂRTĂRESCU s-a născut pe 1 iunie , în Bucureşti. A absolvit Facultatea de Limba şi. Literatura Română.
There is always an unescapable nostalgia from one metamorphosis to another. If Cartarescu, as a postmodernist writer, deconstructs some myths, he never does that to the all- encompassing myth of the book. Nostalgia regenerates this myth. Exoticism embodies the need for another dimension. It is also interwoven in the maternal and paternal genealogies of Mircea, the alter-ego of Cartarescu himself. Through exoticism and symmetry, Mircea wants to grasp his dream being, his inner dreamer.
Here, in my dreams, the caves begin. I wander, holding a wire basket, through the shelves of sherbet and jam, napkins and sacks of sugar some with little green or orange metal cans hidden inside, or so the kids say. I go through a swinging door into another area of the store, one that never existed, and I find myself outdoors, under the stars, with the basket of boxes and jars still in my hand.
I'm behind the block, among mounds of crates made of broken boards, and in front of me is a white table where they sell cheese. But now there is not only one door, like in reality—here are ten doors in a row with windows between each one, brightly lit by the rooms of basement apartments.
Through each window I can see a strange, very high bed, and in each bed a young girl is sleeping, her hair spilling over the pillow, her small breasts uncovered. In one of these dreams, I open the closest door and climb down a spiral staircase, which ends in a small alcove with an electric light. The staircase goes deep into the ground, and in the alcove, one of these girl-dolls is waiting for me, curly-haired and timid.
Even though I am already a man when I have this dream, I am not meant to have Silvia, and all my excitement spends itself in woolen abstractions of words and gestures. We leave holding hands, we cross the snowy street, I see her blue hair in the lights of the pharmacy window and the restaurant named Hora, and then we both wait for the tram while a snowfall covers our faces.
The tram comes, without walls, just the chassis and a few wooden chairs, and Silvia gets on and is lost to a part of the city that I find only later, in other dreams.
Behind this first row of buildings were others, and above them, stars. There was a massive house with red shutters, and a pink house that looked like a small castle. There were short apartment blocks braided with ivy, built between the wars, that had round windows with square panes, Jugendstil ornaments on the stairways, and grotesque towers.
Everything was lost in the blackened leaves of poplars and beech trees, which made the sky seem deeper and darker toward the stars. In each of the lit windows, a life unrolled that I glimpsed only in fragments: a woman ironing, a man on the third floor in a white shirt wandering aimlessly, two women sitting in chairs and talking nonstop. Only three or four windows presented items of interest. In my nights of erotic fever, I would sit in the dark at my window until every light was out and there was nothing to see, hoping to glimpse those uncovered breasts and cheeks and pubic triangles, those men tumbling women into bed or leading them to the window and taking them from behind.
Often the drapes were drawn, and then I strove, squinting, to interpret the abstract and fragmentary movements that flashed in the wedge of unobstructed light. I would see hips and calves in everything, until I made myself dizzy and my sex dripped in my pajamas.
Only then did I go to bed, to dream that I entered those foreign rooms and took part in the complicated erotic maneuvers in their depths Beyond this second row of buildings, the city stretched to the horizon, covering half of the window with a more and more miniscule, jumbled, blurry, haphazard mixture of the vegetable and the architectural, with steeples of trees shooting up here and there and strange cupolas arcing among the clouds.
I could just make out the zigzagging shadow of the mall on Victoria once, when I was a child, my mother showed it to me, against a post-storm sky , and some other tall buildings downtown, decades old and built like ziggurats, laden with pink, green and blue fluorescent billboards that blinked on and off in different rhythms.
Further on, there was only the ever-greater density of stars at the horizon, which, way far-off, became a blade of tarnished gold.
The truth is, while I sat all night on the bedstead with my feet on the radiator, not only did I watch the city, but it too spied on me, it too dreamed of me, it too became excited, because it was only a substitute for my yellow phantom that stared back from the window when the light was on.
I was over twenty years old before this impression left me. By then, they had laid the foundations of the building facing ours, they had decided to widen the street, repave it, demolish the bread factory, the seltzer shop, and the kiosks, and put a wall of apartment buildings, taller than ours, alongside it.
The winter was windy, the sky white and clear after a heavy snow. I looked out of the window only once in a while. A bulldozer knocked down, with its toothed cup, the building where a fulsome woman had lived, a woman who had never shown herself to me naked. The interiors of her rooms were bare and more visible now as ruins, and more sentimental covered in snow. Bucharest was losing a kidney, was having a gland removed, maybe a vital one. Maybe under the skin of the city, like under a wound, there really were caves, and maybe this libidinous housewife who out of spite?
Now the city's gums crumbled like plaster. Soon, that side of the street looked like a mouth of ruined teeth, with yellowed stumps and gaps and rotting metal caps. The snow smelled wonderful when I opened the thin, wet window and put my buzz-cut head outside, freezing my neck and ears and watching the vapors puff out of the room—but beyond its clear, clean smell of clothes frozen on the line, I could sense the stench of destruction.
And if it was true that the cerebral hemispheres developed out of the ancient olfactory bulb, then the stench, the metaphysical drunken breath, the smell of the armpits of time, the dishrag acridity of approaching ecstasy, the air of watercress insanity are, possibly, our most profound thoughts.
In spring, the foundations were excavated, sewer pipes spread like scabies through clay, pink and black cables unrolled from enormous wooden spools, each taller than a person, and concrete skeletons rose up, obscuring one strip of Bucharest after another, choking off the rustling vegetation and blocking up the entryways, gargoyles, cupolas, and stacked terraces of the city. The disorderly and unsteady forms of wood and cast iron, the scaffolds that the workers climbed, the cement mixers that emitted waves of smoke, and the piles of new concrete electrical poles to replace the rusted metal crucifixes all looked like the visible parts of a conspiracy, meant to separate me from Bucharest, and from myself, from my fifteen years spent sitting on the bedstead with my feet on the radiator, pulling the curtain back and watching the vast skies of the city.
A section of my mind closes, a wall goes up, and the wall keeps me from accessing all I projected into every cube and square—the black-green and the yellow-green, the moon, thin as a fingernail, reflecting in all of the windows. When I was seven or eight, my parents made me take a nap every afternoon. The dresser faced the bed, and I would watch my reflection shine on its surface, minute after minute, a child with dark eyes sweating under his sheet and unable to sleep even for a second.
When the sun reflecting in the veneer began to blind me, making me see purple spots, I turned my face to the wall to follow every little rust-colored blossom and leaf in the pattern on the upholstered side of the bedstead cabinet. In this floral labyrinth, I discovered little symmetries, unexpected patterns, animal heads and men's silhouettes, and with these I created stories I meant to continue in my dreams.
But sleep never came, there was too much light, and one October, it was precisely this white light that convinced me to play with fire: I listened first for any sounds from my parents' room, and then I slipped out of bed and tip-toed to the window.
The image of the city was dusty and far away. The street curved off toward the left, so I could see the apartments on our side, toward Lezeanu and Obor. In the distance, I could see the old fire watchtower, and behind it, a city heating plant with its parabolic tubes ejecting petrified smoke. The trees appeared straight, or like Gothic arches, but the closest ones betrayed their provenance: the branches filled with trembling, sprouting leaves were not straight but twisted like an unfastened braid.
I leaned my forehead against the window and, dizzy with insomnia, waited for five o'clock, but time seemed to have stopped flowing, and the terrifying image of my father bursting through the door—his dark hair knotted in a stocking on top of his head like a fez and falling in a thick line as black as a crow's tail—kept coming into my head. Once, during these minutes stolen from obligatory sleep, I contemplated the most beautiful scene in the world.
It was after a summer storm, with lightning branching through the suddenly dark sky, so dark that I would not have been able to say if it was darker in my room or outside, with gusts of rain, rapid parallel streams surrounded by a mist of fine drops lazily bouncing in every direction. When the rain stopped, daylight appeared between the black sky and the wet, gray city, as if two infinitely gentle hands were protecting the yellow, fresh, transparent light that lay across these surfaces, coloring them saffron and orange, and turning the air golden, making it shine like a prism.
Slowly the clouds broke apart, and other stripes of the same rarified gold fell obliquely, crossing the initial light, making it clearer and cooler and even more intense. However hideous because time is an inferno and a creature of time is a devil from the inferno, or maybe a creature foreverdamned , it is our twin, and a strange desire pushes one toward the other, one into the arms of the other.
It crawls out of me like an insect, still wet and soft, from the transparent shell of its former carcass. My memory is the metamorphosis of my life. If I do not plunge bravely into the milky abyss that surrounds and hides my memory in the pupa of my mind, I will never know if I have been, if I am a voracious praying mantis, a spider dreaming upon an endless pair of stilts, or a butterfly of supernatural beauty.
I remember, that is, I invent. I transmute the ghosts of moments into weighty, oily gold. And, somehow, it is also transparent, ever more transparent the deeper the fountain of my mind becomes and I, a skeleton leaning over its walls, contemplate the wide, dreaming eyes reflected in the golden water. That hyaline cartilage, there on the shield where the three heraldic flowers meet — dream, memory, and emotion — that is my domain, my world, the World. There in that sparkling cylinder that descends through my mind.
The Left Wing, part I, chapter 7, para. At the same time, the focus of the Manuscript should not be literature. Herman is very clear in this respect. Herman embodies the autoreferentiality of the author. There is another reason revealed by Herman for the Book to stay a Manuscript and not turn into a finite thing, apart from the postmodern difference between the Work the Opus versus the Text1.
The manuscript can choose its writer, therefore the manuscript contains a maze as long as it is a manuscript, once it is locked the maze becomes an ordinary space like any other2.
Nostalgia is the regenerative pain of the world of the manuscript.
In Orbitor, the liberation stage of the butterfly is the knowledge of truth. But reaching this stage means that revelations in truth are above the separation proclaimed by past, present and future. What happens to death, then? Death occurs at the passage from a metamorphosis to another. At the same time, Orbitor contains by far the most numerous terms with direct reference to creation than any other work of Romanian literature. The facets of creation are numerous and they are all omni present: mythical, mystical, metaphysical, teleological, psychoanalytical, scientific genetic, intracellular and astronomic , esoteric, artistic, architectural, folkloric, fictional, fractal.
Creation happens on every page in relation to a multi-stratified time of fiction. What is beyond memory, everything or nothing? It reaches even the level of underexistence, a foetal time, so slow that its passing consists more of vibrations than of instances. Creation is so much the myth and the substance of this fiction because memory captures the very revelations that make all the obstructive patterns of mind crack.
The omnipresence of walking statues is a direct reference to previous unhelpful patterns of knowledge or habitual thinking, which can make the self their prisoner. In the final act, the statues crack and explode.
But the statues are ambivalent symbols, they hear the silences and can see inside their brain with blind eyes. Reaching the universal memory of Akasia also means that uterus the 1 In the age of multimedia text is anyway naturally expanded outside the medium of print. There is a difference of memory in connection to feminine creation as compared to masculine, cerebral creation.
Masculine creation is the act of feeding, irrigating the manuscript with an irrepressible sadness. Labyrinth becomes the matrix, at all levels of the book, in which man confronts the revelation of immortality.
But, at the same time, Memory must transcend its own matrix. Dream becomes the only possibility to connect all levels. Memory and creation. Memory grows into the substance inhabiting the matrix of labyrinth. In Blinding, it is associated with two forms of creation.
The first of them is the maternal or the feminine. This is the creation in wholeness, not in rupture. The Left Wing, Part 1, Chapter 9, paragraph 6. The second type of creation is the masculine or the cerebral one. The speed of passing from virtual into real is an attempt to simultaneity. The Left Wing, part 3, chapter 25, para. Retrieved November 1, , from Dictionary. And religion itself has no other meaning than Birth. Thus, dream is connected with the maternal womb, because that is the space where we used to dream more, therefore a paradisiac space.
That is the time when we were closer to God, in an unknown way. What is retrievable from that state, through memory, is the state of perfect simultaneity. Coca reads her own name on the newest label that is awaiting its insectary exponent, thus knowing she is the next victim.
Coca is the kidnapper of Victor, the one who secluded him in a mother-less and hopeless world, breeding him in a brothel in Amsterdam.
Another correspondence is that between the sphenoid bone of the skull and a butterfly. This bone has orbits, resembling a butterfly executing a rotation. For Herman, it is this butterfly-shaped bone of the skull that protects the dreams of his embryo1.
Autoreferentiality and exotism. The most exotic couple of Orbitor is illustrated by Herman and Soile. Herman is the watchman at the gateway between reality and dream.
Soile has a name which recalls Aurora Borealis.
In Blinding. Anca, Silvia in Blinding , Nana in Nostalgia are little girls who refuse to accept femininity in full-blossom. Hard-wired in all possible ways to encapsulate beads of their childhood, the little girls are chosen to express, partially, auctorial self-references. The girls build, mentally and viscerally, a certain resistance to the fact that female destiny implies phases.
Un-separating childish drives from the nubile ones, Anca is a chrysalis herself. Her mission is to encase one of the first metamorphoses of the manuscript of Orbitor Blinding. Her connection to Herman is no surprise, under the sign of autoreferentiality. It is a cerebral form of creation. The signs the moles of her skin draw the map of celestial constellations. This posits her as the interiority of something not yet graspable.
Her strange house on Tunari Street, in Bucharest, at night becomes watertight like a spaceship and travels into cosmos. Her voice is mixture of feminine and masculine.
Born with a tarantula heart, Soile could hardly have had any chance to live. A surgeon who did the complicated operation and a little boy with no chance to live, her donor, helped Soile to survive. Otherwise, she lives under a bell glass.
Soile resembles that spider woman of the circus, but in an antipodean way, as a woman of the North who oozes out a mysterious natural light of celestial aurorae. Actually, she embodies the hidden interiority which retains the substance of dream. The end of the second book, Orbitor.
By turning to her as an interruption of his own story, the writer captures the virtual female reader in a mise en abyme reflection. In the second book of Orbitor, Soile appears and wears an enamelled medallion with another Soile in white lace dress in front of her cosmic house, who, in turn contains another Soile in a self-referential loop expanded to at least one thousand clear images. For the first book of Orbitor, Esposito mentions the Russian doll system see Esposito.
Herman recognises Soile because a certain roseate hue of twilight reveals her to him. The child they beget is not a sad homunculus but a messianic little boy, whose presence proves the fecundity of imagination and punctures the burial chamber of reality.
Recognising that Soile is the woman of his life, finding his interiority namely embracing the internal layer of aurora, its astral interface because his interiority is embodied by Soile, Herman has an irrepressible desire to escape from the Manuscript, to remain hidden, unknown somewhere for the rest of his paper life. If the iliac bone is closer to the rhythms of life, to a foetal rhythm, it is through the protective butterfly bone of the skull that flights to other dimensions are possible, along with the experience of the heavens and hell which are so close to each other in human brain, only millimetres apart.
REM and the labyrinth. Entrance or Exit? It is the very substance with which we think, we breathe, we invent worlds or integrate ourselves in the worlds outside us. Coincidently, the distribution of white and grey matter of the brain and spinal cord resembles a butterfly or the letter H. A perfect correspondence to this unseen, internal, stratified butterfly, made of neurons, would be the mise en abyme, present at many levels in Orbitor.
This scene is present both in REM, where the little year-old girl Nana is the main character, and in Orbitor Blinding. He finds it only through his character. He is shown the way by his year-old heroine, Nana.
He comes across this portal accidentally, as he tries to understand the resistance to revelation built by Nana. Corpul: 40 47 annul the differences between his male outlook on existence and the female outlook, that of his character. REM is also the location of our double as the projection of our inner dreamer. REM comes from Rapid Eye Movement, the only moments within a sleep when we are dreaming, therefore when we are truly ourselves, according to Cartarescu.
The girl was only one dream short of being the chosen one, of finding for Egor a kind of avatar of Herman and his ancestors the gateway to the centre of the labyrinth. But finding the cipher that aligns all the worlds is not what would have made her happy. This is what would have made the writer happy. However, following her wish, the writer discovers the REM himself in a way he could not have otherwise guessed.
Let us not forget that we are in a story where the narrator is an insect, following Svetlana the thirtyish Nana and her casual lover, Vali. Another mise en abyme is the unnamed painting turned to the reader, in opposition to the painting albums on the shelf Tintoretto, Guardi, da Vinci, Degas, Harunobu, Pontormo, Mantegna.
If Orbitor is genuinely based on the ekphrasis on Monsu Desiderio, in REM the picture is not stated, it must be recognisable. Even Egor and his Elongated mother seem to descend from this painting. It appears to be twilight but not very late.
The shadow of a little girl rolling a hoop lengthens out on the macadam. REM provides, earlier than Orbitor, the feeling that there is a synthesis of all tempos, that simultaneity of times is possible, and that simultaneity is the precondition of finding REM. Nana discovers, at the same time with REM, the ambiguity which is the end of her childhood. It is like a prefiguration of death.
It is the first time she experiences a death as a passage from a metamorphosis to another. This end comes implacable also in a biological sense the menarche , as the beginning of adolescence, in the very night she is supposed to leave the outskirts courtyard that had been her paradisiac world of playing. The ambiguity comes in the form 48 of cheating. Nana has ruined the spontaneity of playing by imposing a rule which was, in fact, a guilt-inducing lie.
It is not the same thing with an accidental mistake like stepping in and out of a hopscotch.
The price of her REM comes at backing-off from Egor. Unlike her, he is the one who preserves his childhood, since he has the defect or gift which preserves his thymus active.
In that moment, I had the All. The butterfly infra-time reminds us of a foetal rhythm. No passing from one stage to another can be forced, from larval stage to pupation and then to the liberated imago adult butterfly.
Metamorphosis would fail at an earlier splitting of pupal case. In the same way, simultaneity cannot be compelled, it comes through revelation. This is the rhythm of masculine, cerebral creation, when it is inventing the world through its dream REM moments, with the speed of the thought. The rhythm of feminine creation is a foetal rhythm, more stable and more similar to the infra-time of butterfly eclosion.
Touching REM is like touching the Beyond without becoming a different being in time. To give birth to the One who will give us birth. We will see him only in sections, because he is perpendicular1 to our world, bowed deeply above it. Her Everything is the first-time kiss. Ester is the incarnation of love in that moment, when Nana is 12, in love with the emotion of love. The pursuit of love when they are grown up, out of that moment, would have been nonsensical.
After that, the Entrance of Playing will be forever locked also barred as the result of betraying her doll, Zizi, actually her younger self, to a cruel trial.
She has lost her equality with her Creator. In their games, the girls could not see the chess players watching their childish playing. No, at that time we could not discern the Chess Players gravely leaning over our world. It is not very clear what they have in common, but probably it is because of them, because of their idealism, that the world needs a full replacement with another higher reality.
Again, it is hard for the reader to tell the difference between them. They know God even in infra-reality and in infra-time. They see the future. They do not live in the Nostalgia after a heavenly paradise and do not contaminate the others with it because they have access to a higher sense which is perpendicular on our existence. It the middle of all trials, amidst all intricacies, the centre is the kern of another nature. If the attempt to cross the labyrinth has had a negative paradigm, initially, after the reach of the centre a positive paradigm emerges.
The centre defies death and is the place where a transsubstation occurs. His presence as a mise en abyme is a way to hold together all the invented worlds. Symmetry versus simultaneity. Narcissus-type of love is, at the same time, an illusion and a rejection of memory. Just like Narcissus gazing at himself, Victor is a man without memories. Symmetry is the preservation of halves, simultaneity is androgyny. Dream, generated by nostalgia as its compensatory universe, achieves the de-synchronisation with the habit of the reason, namely of putting in order the past, the present and the future.
As the writer says in the first book, space is a measure of paradise, time is a measure of inferno. How strange it is that, like the emblem of bipolarity, in the center of a shadow is light, and that light creates shadows. After all, what else is memory, this poisoned fountain at the center of the mind, this center of paradise?
Well-shaft walls of tooled marble shaking water green as bile, and its bat-winged dragon standing guard? And what is love? A limpid, cool water from the depths of sexual hell, an ashen pearl in an oyster of fire and rending screams? Memory, the time of the timeless kingdom. Love, the space of the spaceless domain. The seeds of our existence, opposed yet so alike, unite across the great symmetry, and annul it through a single great feeling: nostalgia.
This one —winged butterfly appears with dots instead of a complete 51 drawing of the wings before Mircea knows the cipher, the drawing of the butterfly being threatened by the drawing of the spider1. Symmetry is what brings the fear of separation. Symmetry anchors the being in such a powerful illusion that is impossible to find a way out of it.
Victor, the mirror-twin of Mircea, the one bound to him in a Narcissus-like story of love and abhorrence, is the embodiment of symmetry at its highest potential of drawing the illusion. We all have memories of the past, but none of us can remember the future. And yet, we exist between the past and future like the vermiform body of a butterfly, in between its two wings.
We use one wing to fly, because we have sent our nerve filaments out to its edges, and the other is unknown, as if we were missing an eye on that side. But how can we fly with one wing? Prophets, illuminati, and heretics of symmetry foresaw what we could and must become. But what they see per speculum in aenigmate we will all see clearly, at least as clearly as we can see the past. Then, even our torturous nostalgia will be whole. This vision occurs within simultaneity.
We have had the sense of simultaneity ever since our life before life. Before birth, in the infra-time similar to a butterfly rhythm, our being knows no separation from God. The divine mission entrusted to us by the very act of our birth, if unfulfilled, will need symmetry as a compensatory illusion.