Modern medicine made unprecedented progress. Brand new illnesses poised for the anticipated pounce, some had mutated to life on their own accord, others were developed for tactical purposes, but quite a few cued among them were well-tried old syndromes that had hardly been considered illnesses in their own right. One of these was Mental Immune Deficiency, formerly referred to as love.
It would be superb if in the process of writing, going from one word to the next, from one sentence to the next, there was some way that, like the beam of a flashlight, we could light up our way for and thus catch in the act precisely what is becoming what it does become from being caught in the act.
The most primal principle of life is theatrical: the jellyfish in the fairylike-fatal underworld of the sea, the coconut periwigs in the Gothic fan-towers of palms, the fetid head of an embryo at the end of the umbilical cord, jasmine, horseradish, sicknesses: these are all theatrical, colorful, simulating and subterfuges. Not lies, just masks, mimics. That is what history is too; that is the darkest instinct of life. That and art. The darkest and also the loneliest.