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

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