Suicide annotates itself.
Suicide is the accusation of murder.
“You drove me to it.”
“Bill is the cause of this.”
“See what you are making me do.”
“You have killed me.”
“I hope you are never allowed to forget what you (will) have done to me.”
Suicide is spiteful and sarcastic.
“I know this is what you have been hoping for a long time.”
“This is what you wanted.”
“I hope you are satisfied.”
“I hope you are happy in your heart.”
“I hope this makes you happy.”
Suicide is for the good of others.
“Everyone will be better for it.”
“This way he can be free.
Suicide says we will meet again.
“I believe we will meet later under much more favorable circumstances.”
“I hope one day we will meet in heaven.”
“I hope this brings the peace we once had.”
“I am going to meet my dad.”
—
Kresten Bjerg , “The Suicidal Life: Attempts at a Reconstruction from Suicide Notes.”
—
To this point no one who brackets actually brackets. The ancients merely declared the suspension of judgement after careful inquiry about what a thing it truly is. I just do not know, used to be sufficient. Much later a grammar teacher will adopt and adapt the crooked cross and simply put words and entire texts and writing itself under erasure (sous rature), which means using them while suspecting each and every one of deceit and treachery in its heart of hearts. This allowed maximum play and minimum grounding in the meaning of really anything you could read or write down or say or hear or think about or have thought of.
The outer limit or boundary of erasure for this grammarian, of course, was his anticipation of the death and then the actual death of this knowing thing where what is under erasure is turned upside down.
Now the knowing thing is to be erased from himself but first with the hope and then, hopefully, as the mere fact of the leaving behind and preserving and underscoring things to know about things known by the knowing thing in remembrance of the very same such that the real true only thing remaining of the knowing thing, the remnants, are now full bodied things in themselves to be known as words and thoughts in absence of blood to speak over them whilst what once knew now simply moulders.
Naturally, this human hunger to survive and to thrive and to propagate after death by way of words is simply continuing hungers in life where the words of the knowing thing displayed themselves under a single sign hanging overhead emblazoned with the name of the thing that knows and with flesh and blood lurking close-by hoping to be spotted and recognized by way of the name. That’s me!, says the human animal. I’m him!
Often in fact, there are two stories written into stories. The first story is the right proper story, or the story-proper. This is the story story. Then there is the very real story of the story as the storywriter hoping for a better tomorrow, individual, by way of storywriting. This means the praise. The status. The position. The prizes. The acclaim. Recognition of the name casted back upon flesh and blood in warm glowing light and in a feast of ripe and fragrant rewards.
Recall the Uruguo-Franch poet and philosopher who called attention to the essential wreckage that is the world. For this poet there is no better tomorrow, individual and society, society and species, that does not conceal the fire within the dumpster of its heart of hearts. Yet in his own heart of hearts within and apart from the world he decried what this France-Uruguoo wanted was fame and status as his own better tomorrow amid a world burning, akin to the pessimistic and jealous German hardboiled egg with an affliction of hair.
Or, we can look at the Bagel that the Hardboiled Egg so hated and was jealous of because of the Bagel’s fame and academic fortune at having discovered a better tomorrow, individual to society, society to species, by way of Absolute Spirit, which turned out to be nonsense, except that the discovery meant fame and academic fortune, which did mean a better tomorrow until his dying day, individual.
This is called the story differential within the story of the stories of a better tomorrow or not a better tomorrow. Or rather, there is the differential and then there is the double differential, which opens up into the triple differential, meaning the difference between how a story goes and how the world really goes in relation to the story about it, and then how the story goes in the world in relation to the name of the storywriter, and then how the name goes in relation to flesh and blood as the human animal hungering for all the acknowledgement and acclaim by the world regardless of how the world goes in relation to the story about the world by the storywriter. In concert these comprise a differential complex. Then, like jets traveling in the Missing Man Formation, the knowing thing breaks off to vanish over the horizon (dies) while words remain flying overhead with a banner trailing emblazoned with the name. The same Missing Man Formation was used to great effect in the final scene of Fast and Furious 7, but with cars, to commemorate the fiery car death of one of its stars. A tear comes to my eye just thinking of it.
In any case, now the quadruple differential comes into play where the name on the story no longer points to any real flesh or blood, as if to say I am not him and he is not me and there is a difference. Or maybe this is the new triple differential, meaning there are four differentials but only three ever pertaining at once. Nobody knows.