The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive


It's always in the peripheral that accidents occur, organisms are born.
You can hunt anywhere, you can hunt online. Ghosts are here, their images
trapped, evanescent. Always present, always lost, the very thickness of
our flesh at stake.

ghost ghostrap disappearance transparence

Sometimes I will write a line, a single line, several words and barriers,
and they will seem sufficient, they will seem to resonate with the real,
to dance in the mind of the reader or writer, sometimes that appears all
that is necessary, as if philosophy is a foregone conclusion, need nothing
more than the memory of a signifier of a catalyst, and this is one of
those lines, those moments, opening up into places I cannot enter, places
I have made for you and the fecundity of your detailing; I create my own
barriers and thresholds, my own emissions and derailings, beyond which
nothing remains but fear, the slight scent perhaps of Anita Berber or
Dogen, or just the masquerade of a scent, construed from the shadows in
the corner, Carneades' snake or rope, history softly murmuring fact after
fact after fact...

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