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Simon Critchley

Memory Theatre

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A French philosopher dies during a savage summer heat wave. Boxes carrying his unpublished miscellany mysteriously appear in Simon Critchley's office. Rooting through piles of papers, Critchley discovers a brilliant text on the ancient art of memory and a cache of astrological charts predicting the deaths of various philosophers. Among them is a chart for Critchley himself, laying out in great detail the course of his life and eventual demise. Becoming obsessed with the details of his fate, Critchley receives the missing, final box, which contains a maquette of Giulio Camillo's sixteenth-century Venetian memory theatre, a space supposed to contain the sum of all knowledge. That's when the hallucinations begin…
Biography & AutobiographyPersonal MemoirsHistory & CriticismPerforming ArtsTheater
This book is currently unavailable
74 printed pages
Copyright owner
Bookwire
Original publication
2014
Publication year
2014

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  • azriqherodotusshared an impression4 years ago
    👍Worth reading

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    Quotes

    • Hina Usmanhas quoted22 days ago
      purpose, aim or goal. That is the most difficult thing to endure. Not death, but dying. Death will happen. Yes. It is certain. Yes. But not now, and life cannot be consumed in the now. The now of nows. It is forever not now. Even if I hanged myself I would not experience a nihilating leap into the abyss, but just the rope tying me tight, ever tighter, to the existence I wanted to leave.
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      • Hina Usmanhas quoted22 days ago
        But it’s not death that terrifies me, but life’s continuation, its stretching into a distance that recedes as we try to approach. No pur
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        • Hina Usmanhas quoted25 days ago
          Poetry lets us see things as they are. It lets us see particulars being various. But – Michel insisted – poetry lets us see things as they are anew. Under a new aspect. Transfigured. Subject to a felt variation. The poet sings a song that is beyond us and yet it is ourselves that it sings. Things change when the poet sings them, but they are still our things: recognizable, common, near, low. We hear the poet sing and press back against the pressure of reality
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