There’s a day when you see three or four blind people, after not seeing any for years, not even in a dream. You meet a woman named Olimpia, and a few minutes later you open a dictionary to the page showing Manet’s Olympia, then two hours later, on the street, you pass Olimpia’s Flowershop. These are nodes of meaning, plexuses of the world’s neural system, they connect organs and events, signals that you ought to pursue until they wave a white flag—and you would, if you didn’t have this stupid prejudice for reality. We ought to have a sensory organ that can tell sign from coincidence.
