The disaster = a thing in itself, by itself. The thing in its location. This view invites reason in to our system, which cannot function by it – of course it is impossible that things should move, and yet we build our contract with existence on the premise that they can, that we can.
Chaos = the principle of motion, with no rest in objects. Chaos prefers nothing. This runs counter to our pragmatism, which relies on preference and discernment.
I’ve barely cracked a Blanchot book, but this is some of the sense I take from him.
Mourning = knowing (saying a word, offering an image) without attachment. When, for example, in a state of mourning we say that a loved one is dead, we refuse to take up death as a policy or definition, despite our knowledge of its reality. Our love is not legislated by it, and continues to evolve; death is on the left side of the equation – it isn’t the sum. We don’t know the sum. So mourning is a way of converting what seemed like an answer into a question, a way of knowing we don’t know. Morning addresses disaster, and puts objects in motion. Mourning is creative.
Memory exercises preference without utility – it prefers, but by itself, has no impact (remembering changes the present, but not the past; the past is deformed by memory as it is borne into the present, but is unreachable in reality by acts of the mind). Memory allows for practical negotiations with chaos, without solving chaos.
Plays start with disaster and end with chaos. Plays start with mourning and end with memory.