We can’t reveal what we’ve hidden by cracking open the narrative shell and prying out the nut of truth. Every interpretation will only be another mask; a story about the story is no less a lie. Yet we are not completely without resources. To echo Longinus … between story and story, between story and its translations--there flashes forth the lightning bolt of the sublime. An interpretation does not replace, it dis-places, and this friction of displacement (sexual frission) is generative, here as on the level of metaphor. Between the visible two there emerges an invisible third, discernible not in itself, but in its effect—in the difference it makes--as yet another signifier. Where then the signified ... if not where it has always been--in us?
with a tip a the hat to women under the brim
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