What vision? This thought breaks the borders of the book by an interior implosion.
It is impossible, really, to go anywhere, as there are some places that you cannot imagine. Still trying out of the loss, forgotten, obscured, for one more mille-second not to leave something lost, forgotten, obscured. And not everything can be saved, salvaged, arranged, remembered. And if there is excessive "system" set over and around the detail, it seems as if we have lost touch with the necessary delicacy, the smallness of the local and intransigent. There is scattering and an unidentifiable feeling. I think it is pools and swamps of sadness. There is brightness, darkness and no genre enough for it, though we have some general names even for gray and cloudiness, even for the swooping of raptors even for texts of philosophy.
Excerpts from Graphic Novella
By Rachel Blau DuPlessis | 1 November 2014