I do not know if it has ever been noted before that one of the main characteristics of life is discreteness. Unless a film of flesh envelopes us, we die. Man exists only insofar as he is separated from his surroundings. The cranium is a space-traveller’s helmet. Stay inside or you perish. Death is divestment, death is communion. It may be wonderful to mix with the landscape, but to do so is the end of the tender ego.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Putting up selves
Something that Dick Headley said about Malcolm McLaren kicked off a slightly rhizomatic thought process that ended up at Nabokov’s Pnin: