Fitzcarraldo Editions

Where has it come from, this whole landscape of wounds?

– he says.

From bodies without passion, which are also landscape.

A person’s face does not exist in itself,’ Alfred Hitchcock said, ‘only when a light shines on it.’ An activity that is common but nonetheless just as strange as shining a light on people’s faces is the packaging up of things; we package up everything. The internet is only millions of metres of cable that package up the globe. Or take plants, which, left to grow unchecked, would package it up too. Or when people embrace: what is an embrace but the packaging up of the other, giving them a shape unknown to all but you. Or what is choosing one’s gender but the packaging up of
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sex. Meaning there is no need to wrap things up as gifts or send them in the post in order to give them an outline or an identity; light does that for us already. There is no face, once illuminated, that does not fill the beholder’s eyes with love. (Parcel love)

You and I are nothing.

– he says.

In a world whose only desire is to devour everything, it’s better to be nothing.

– she says.

Meaning that when we transmit information, we also transmit all of those forgotten worlds, although in a manner that we are still yet to completely comprehend. This forgetting is me introduced into the heads of others, is my life enclosed in that place, or the part of me accessible only to the person who – in the experience of love – has me inside their head, even though this person (I know) may have forgotten me forever. (Oblivion love)