Diderótica I: Jacques, el fatalista actualizado [translated]
Díptico gnóstico, p. 90
Just to arrive without wanting to hold her is to have lost everything before it started, and neither heaven nor hell will take an interest in whomever won’t see themselves as a fatum. Nietzsche spoke of loving one’s fate, and this antiquarian, nigh-extinct resignation of hauteur towards life has always stirred my respect, as it takes on the superb risk of assuming there may be order in a world that seems to have no place for it.
So one passes to live off air, depending on what tutelary forces make themselves manifest to chisel us onto a separate scale.
I am a fatalist, though I admit that, in an oddly liberal manner, I don’t think everybody has a fate.
I think instead that, as when applying charcoals, there are more or less hard lines —compressed, vine, willow— resulting in some very marked personalities that devour the page around them, and in others that are almost formless, pallid, insolid; their barely insinuated contours clinging to the white and empty spaces of the canvas.
Sooner or later, those who spend their waking hours courting the fates to set the stage for the most prodigious feats and fortunes to shake hands on it –and them– will be rewarded with a callback from the impresarios. But for destiny to be definitive and one to glean a proper order, intent or direction from it, one must first predestine oneself, freely.
I have tracked a similar sentiment in a few tragic Greeks, in the Roman stoics and in Tin Tin.