Thus, on the twelfth day it occurred to her that what was real could not be represented, only captured or recreated. To think of it as documentation is to mistake the sign of the thing for the thing itself. I’m a bit low on stock right now, but stay in touch and I’m sure I can arrange a free sample for you. Nowadays, I run a 100% organic, locally–sourced, artisanal, small batch-very small batch-semen farm. Yeah, I did the corporate thing for a while, but only until I found my calling. In moving, it was as if our daughter were still with us, all giggles and elbows instead of a bloody handprint on hood of a Nissan Sentra. We didn’t stop, because there was something ecstatic in the leaving, a scent of the secret breath of life that tells you to keep moving, and so we did. 256, #8 of La Revue Annuelle de L’Academie Francaise, when Victor Hugo famously accused Marie-Henri Beyle of an intellectual style reflective of nothing but aphorisms and epigrams, to which Beyle replied, “ Au contraire, for wasn’t it Stendhal who said…” After all, who in their right mind fears death when the alternative is the absence of presence? After all, wouldn’t it be better to know ourselves by discovering everything we’re not? After all, we’re neither absent nor present, just traces of what we used to be.Īnd yet, who can forget that infamous moment, recorded for all posterity in Vol. No, I’m not afraid of dying it’s living that worries me more, this mania for coherence, for matter and mattering when we’re just grains of animated stardust. So once it became obvious that her successes would so completely dwarf my own and would always continue to do so, all I felt, all I could say was “-.” What is it with Americans and their obsession with apertures? Is it a fear of doors closing, opportunities or possibilities lost-or is it something else entirely? Could it be something as simple as a form of mass hysteria, however tiny, that when opportunity presents itself, what will happen is that they’ll be vulnerable, exposed for what they really are: lost, small, and each one, alone. And now, now we never speak of it except perhaps in passing, when we mention only that one peculiar, particular window, always in need of repair.
Look closely enough at this image and you’ll find a hole, and down that hole is the one thing we swore we’d hide away forever, the thing we swore we’d bury because it hurt to have it seared into memory. There is an image of a window in the window, and in that window there is a window, and in that window there is an image. The work of art, like the world, is a living form: it is, it has no need of justification….The same is true of a symphony, a painting, a novel: It is in their form that their reality resides.
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