Hers was a beauty entangled with suffering; an immodest body, tried and tested; a body without harshness but one that wasn’t frightened by the harshness of the world. It sufficed to see it, truly, to understand it. I watched Siga D. and I knew the truth: this wasn’t a human being I had before me, but a spider, the Spider-Mother, whose vast composition was interwoven with millions of threads of silk but also of steel and maybe blood, and I was merely a fly mired in that web, a fascinated and fat, green-hued fly, caught in Siga D., in the lattice and density of her lives.
