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I don't see [the jungle] so much erotic. i see it more full of obscenity. it's just - nature here is vile and base. i wouldn't see anything erotical here. i would see fornication and asphyxiation and choking and fighting for survival and growing and just rotting away. of course, there's a lot of misery. but it is the same misery that is all around us. the trees here are in misery, and the birds are in misery. i don't think they sing. they just screech in pain.
-Werner Herzog
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I Don't See [the Jungle] So Much

Werner Herzog
I don't see [the jungle] so much erotic. i see it more full of obscenity. it's just - nature here is vile and base. i wouldn't see anything erotical here. i would see fornication and asphyxiation and choking and fighting for survival and growing and just rotting away. of course, there's a lot of misery. but it is the same misery that is all around us. the trees here are in misery, and the birds are in misery. i don't think they sing. they just screech in pain.
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Topic
Pain Fighting Thinking

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Someone once asked me why people sing. i answered that they sing for many of the same reasons the birds sing. they sing for a mate, to claim their territory, or simply to give voice to the delight of being alive in the midst of a beautiful day. perhaps more than the birds do, humans hold a grudge. they sing to complain of how grievously they have been wronged, and how to avoid it in the future. they sing to help themselves execute a job of work. they sing so the subsequent generations won’t forget what the current generation endured, or dreamed, or delighted in.
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The trees are in misery, and the birds are in misery. i don’t think they sing. they just screech in pain. …taking a close look at what’s around us, there is some sort of harmony: it’s the harmony of overwhelming and collective murder.
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Imagine some foul and putrid corpse that has lain rotting and decomposing in the grave, a jelly-like mass of liquid corruption. imagine such a corpse a prey to flames, devoured by the fire of burning brimstone and giving off dense choking fumes of nauseous loathsome decomposition. and then imagine this sickening stench, multiplied a millionfold and a millionfold again from the millions upon millions of fetid carcasses massed together in the reeking darkness, a huge and rotting human fungus. imagine all this, and you will have some idea of the horror of the stench of hell.
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Grief does not end and love does not die and nothing fills its graven place. with grace, pain is transmuted into the gold of wisdom and compassion and the lesser coin of muted sadness and resignation; but something leaden of it remains, to become the kernel arond which more pain accretes (a black pearl): one pain becomes every other pain ... unless one strips away, one by one, the layers of pain to get to the heart of the pain - and this causes more pain, pain so intense as to feel like evisceration.
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The only way to be a champion is by going through these forced reps and the torture and pain. that's way i call it the torture routine. because it's like forced torture. torturing my body. what helps me is to think of this pain as pleasure. pain makes me grow. growing is what i want. therefore, for me pain is pleasure. and so when i am experiencing pain i'm in heaven. it's great. people suggest this is masochistic. but they're wrong. i like pain for a particular reason. i don't like needle's stuck in my arm. but i do like the pain that is necessary to be a champion.
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You yourself create all your misery, hour after hour, day after day. you think the goal justifies the means, even the vile means. you are wrong: the goal is in the path on which you arrive at it. every step of today is your life of tomorrow. no great goal can be reached by vile means. that you have proven in every social revolution. the vileness or inhumanity of the path to the goal makes you vile or inhuman, and the goal unattainable.
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