Mr Cogito never trustedtricks of the imaginationthe piano at the top of the Alpsplayed false concerts for himhe didn't appreciate labyrinthsthe Sphinx filled him with loathinghe lived in a house with no basementwithout mirrors or dialecticsjungles of tangled imageswere not his homehe would rarely soaron the wings of a metaphorand then he fell like Icarusinto the embrace of the Great Motherhe adored tautologiesexplanationsidem per idemthat a bird is a birdslavery means slaverya knife is a knifedeath remains deathhe lovedthe flat horizona straight linethe gravity of the
Mr Cogito will be numberedamong the species minoreshe will accept indifferently the verdictof future scholars of the letterhe used the imaginationfor entirely different purposeshe wanted to make itan instrument of compassionhe wanted to understand to the very end- Pascal's night- the nature of a diamond- the melancholy of the prophets- Achilles' wrath- the madness of those who kill- the dreams of Mary Stuart- Neanderthal fear- the despair of the last Aztecs- Nietzsche's long death throes- the joy of the painter of Lascaux- the rise and fall of an oak- the rise and fall of Romeand so to bring the dead back to lifeto preserve the
Mr Cogito's imaginationhas the motion of a pendulumit crosses with precisionfrom suffering to sufferingthere is no place in itfor the artificial fires of poetryhe would like to remain faithfulto uncertain clarity
