Nathanimal

“collage = reality”
― Joseph Cornell

“From the idea that the self is not given to us, I think there is only one practical consequence: we have to create ourselves as a work of art.”
― Michel Foucault

“I have no literary interests; I am made of literature. I am nothing else and cannot be anything else.”
― Franz Kafka

“You have asked a question: "Are we by chance a lie?" you say. The possibility disturbs you, but it is necessary for you to reconcile yourselves to being part of an unfinished set of events. You might, for example, be the characters in a literary work of the fantastic genre who have suddenly gained autonomous life. On the other hand, we might be a conglomeration of dreams dreamt by various people in different parts of the world. We are somebody else's dream. Why not? Or a lie. Or perhaps we are the materialization, in human terms, of a chess game ending in a stalemate. Or perhaps we are a film, a film that lasts barely an instant. Or the image of others, not ourselves, in a mirror. Perhaps we are the thoughts of a madman. Perhaps one of us is real and others, his hallucination, There is still another possibility. Perhaps we are a printing error that has inadvertently slipped by, that makes an otherwise clear text, confusing. Perhaps it is the transposition of the lines of a text that brings us to life in this prodigious manner. Or perhaps we are a text that being revealed in a mirror takes on a totally different meaning from the one it really has. Perhaps we are a premonition - the image formed in someone's mind long before the events in which we participate in real life take place. Perhaps we are a fortuitous event that has not yet occurred, which is barely gestating in the cracks of time, or a future event that has not yer occurred. We are an incomprehensible sign drawn on a moist windowpane on a rainy afternoon. We are the memory, nearly lost, of a remote event. We are beings and objects invoked by a magician's spell. We are something has been forgotten. We are an accumulation of words, an event told by means of illegible writing, a testimony no one hears. We are part of an entertaining magic show. A bill sent to the wrong address. We are the fleeting, involuntary image that crosses the minds of lovers as they meet, at the instant they lust, at the moment they die. We are a secret thought. . .”
― Elizondo Salvador, Farabeuf