Once I read a text
about a story. The latter I know and admire. I had not read anything by the
author of the former. The reading inspired me to think about the possibilities
of commentary. The theoretical apparatus used in the text was strikingly
different from the set of theoretical frameworks I typically rely on in
investigations into the potentials of interpretation. Hence, every attempt to
accommodate the text to my idiosyncrasies turned out to be merely an instance of
indeterminacy of translation. And yet, there were so many things in it that required
a thorough analysis, so I started laterally approaching the points of
significance. Instead of discursively clearing up the misty spots in the
narrative, I imagined the text interrogating an individual. The dialogue would
be of the approximately following content:
You should turn on
flash on your camera. But, I don’t take pictures at night.
In your house there is
no shoe rack. But, I only wear sneakers.
You need to borrow some
money in order to buy that fabulous perfume. But, I can’t smell.
You must learn the
formula to express the relationship between mass and velocity at maximum
acceleration. But, there’s no such thing as the mass/velocity/acceleration
nexus in the physics I know.
When you drive, make
sure you change the tires every five hundred kilometers. I don’t drive.
In order to be famous,
you must live out the illusion of your own grandiosity. But, I don’t give a
fuck about illusions.
If you want to
understand something, you must be an artist. But, fuck off!!!
In order to be
somewhere, you must create space in the fantasy prerequisite for your
somnambulist grandeur.
You must be inherently incorrigibly
mutable if you hope to inhabit somebody else’s delusions.
No concept can
encapsulate the greatness of learning.
I have no idea if I
made the ideas from the text clearer to myself. I’m not sure I’m interested in
further decoding it. I was concerned about the vague areas that might remain
impenetrable for me. I was nearly desperate because there was a possibility to
persist in listlessness regarding the superknots in the narrative. I felt I was
getting increasingly hopeless because the natural density of the text will
irrevocably deny me access to the beauty hidden where I cannot find it.
I’m not concerned any
more. I don’t care about the areas I cannot reach. Not because I cannot, but
because whatever could be found there is not what I seek.
Indeterminacy of
translation again told me a story about storytelling.
