Rather like Von Trier’s movie your quote from the Butler is at first sight rather indigestible, so I began to pull it apart:
‘ . . . a melancholia that attends living and loving
outside the livable
and outside the field of love , , ,
. . . overcome, in part, precisely
through the repeated scandal
by which the unspeakable nevertheless makes itself heard
through borrowing and exploiting the very terms
that are meant to enforce its silence.’
Perhaps the gaps could be even greater. Digestion should never be hurried.
Silence, perhaps, is an unknowingness until some
Thing emerges, something like an awareness of loss.
A sharp expelling of breath
Then more silence
Comforting silence – if only we could stay here –
But life intervenes, a clock strikes and it’s time to catch a bus.
Melancholy was always more accessible before we all had cars to hide away in.
The silent melancholy of the lone passenger wiping at the misted-up window
Where are we?
Yet in the loss does it matter as all journeys approach the timeless
For some reason I picture this bus heading away from Trafalgar Square down Whitehall halfway between Trafalgar Square and Parliament Square and it is probably less than half full. It’s about 8.30 on a rainy November evening. Working people heading home.
The driver is taking care of us through the wild country of government
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