Gyres. Meet me in borderspace… As the demon of alteration began to rot the fragile affective meshwork that had formed between us, the sensation of everything having happened before swept through our souls. The co-poetic net fell lifeless to the floor. Repetitions with differences proliferated on the waysides of that great procession between empires of the senses. Afterwards: I am standing in the car park at night, sick with fatigue, staring at the stars. My empty stomach cramps over and over and my thoughts, my spirits, my desires, are all in a state of decay. Werther-Syndrome is reconstituted in a place of extraordinary vulnerability within me. A plane crosses overhead. The situation at the hotel courses through me and upwards; all the people, all the rooms, into the sky. Again Breton’s question imposes itself: qui suis-je? — Who am I? Who am I following?
Yeats, The Gyres
THE GYRES! the gyres! Old Rocky Face, look forth;
Things thought too long can be no longer thought,
For beauty dies of beauty, worth of worth,
And ancient lineaments are blotted out.
Irrational streams of blood are staining earth;
Empedocles has thrown all things about;
Hector is dead and there’s a light in Troy;
We that look on but laugh in tragic joy.
What matter though numb nightmare ride on top,
And blood and mire the sensitive body stain?
What matter? Heave no sigh, let no tear drop,
A-greater, a more gracious time has gone;
For painted forms or boxes of make-up
In ancient tombs I sighed, but not again;
What matter? Out of cavern comes a voice,
And all it knows is that one word ‘Rejoice!’
Conduct and work grow coarse, and coarse the soul,
What matter? Those that Rocky Face holds dear,
Lovers of horses and of women, shall,
From marble of a broken sepulchre,
Or dark betwixt the polecat and the owl,
Or any rich, dark nothing disinter
The workman, noble and saint, and all things run
On that unfashionable gyre again.