February 24, 2017


Simona Sušec is a philosopher and an admirer of literature. She lives in seclusion in Ljubljana, Slovenia. She finds English difficult.

If a
muscle is located, not in the wing, but in the rachis, or if
eyeballs are attached directly to eyelashes and the
pelt is just a tuft of muscle tissues, or if
the intestine of a child falls short of muscles
at the expense of a muscle bound layette and slippers, which
stretch their strings in woolen cramps like metal traps with
teeth chattering against one another and—wire against wire and tooth
against tooth—hurt even more by cause of
all these arrhythmias, in which
all this vascular force
wastes itself again and again in a blazing rage, as if
every stretch of the cervical vein,
every scratch of the nervous sword in
everlasting warming up for the great barrage
always and no less every single time,
as if sometimes but always,
as if maybe not this time but every other time always,
evaporates in imminent spirituality, which
can be experienced only as a pale omnipresent miraculous
product of the world’s most sophisticated machine,
which is broken—that’s when we say: the birth of a fury.

The fury is an animal as far as the barycentre of its moves
always coincides with its intent, which is why
we like to say: it’s pretty. And then, every now and then,
friends of families affected—those
mothers and brothers, those
mothers, those
mothers, those
salty mattresses,
maternal groans, when the
damned birth of the fury befalls the earth, those
countless pulses of an organ on a trunk with no branches
in a cage of branches—without any malice,
considerately and with great discretion
drool through their teeth in the presence of this
cream, this
foaming delta, this
foam in the mouth of this
tormented grimace, this
eyeball itch as lens being polished, this
twitch, this
twitchling, this
curling of sliced cervical wires, this
misery we call

the life of a fury. And those friends, we like to call them
epicureans as well as
gastronomes but not for instance
zoologists. When the fury wanders near this
strange flock of Sunday surgeons—who would sometimes
forget to put down their fork from lunch and would simply
use it together with a knife to tickle fury’s organs, and even if they’d
only like to scrape a bit of its dead skin, they are forgetting that
the skin of a fury is still nerved up,
circulated with blood and all sensitive—it moves with
compulsion, which is why it is all on the surface and
all for them to take. Underneath,
there is also an interior, but
it is, as we say, not whole:
“Hishismniunole,” they mumble, it is not-whole. It’s not injured,
fury is the injury, briefly, it has nothing to do with the
hazy mass we call bottomless will, briefly, its bottomless

will is not in its possession. It is therefore
not true that a fury follows a man and stalks him like a
lava spreading from its source and rotting around the cold grim world,
not at all. Surely, fury rages, but it doesn’t rove. It is
he who strays into its parts, while it
only pulses still with its muscular excrescences and is
as irrelevant to geographers as it is to historians.
We say: furies are destiny.
That is why furies are not their own birth:
the birth of a fury is, namely, something
that befalls, namely a family,
a family befall, namely a
mine in a stomach of, namely a
family tree, namely a larch or an oak;
but in the fall of furies there are
exactly zero trees and exactly nothing familiar. That is why we
inexactly say: a fury is a stillborn spring.

© Simona Sušec


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