The Museum of Eterna's Novel

THE ESSENTIAL FANTASMAGORICALISM OF THE WORLD

Beloved, we feel the emptiness of the world, of the geometrical and physical presentation of Things, of the Universe, and the fullness, the unique certainty of Passion, essential Being, without plurality.

You’ll smile, as if spellbound by this void, from a window that seems to look out over an immense and immovable External Reality that quickly reduces to a point, if you think for a moment how the image of a scene you dream or imagine when you think yourself awake might contain the entire world, and nevertheless it fits in your mind, or spirit, or if you like, in the vibration of an imperceptible molecule of your “gray matter,” as the physiologists say. If, having taken in a panoramic view of sun, earth, sky, forests, river, seas, river banks, or buildings, later you’ll think or dream that you have exactly the same immense image closed in a point of your mind, of your soul, or, if you like, in a microscopic nervous cell in your brain. Moreover, this same gray matter, and the entire brain, is an image in your mind, since you wouldn’t know it existed if it weren’t for the images you have of its form, color, divisions, sketches, or views, and your images of contact, of temperature, if you’ve studied anatomy. If the gray matter existed for itself, how could it think of itself? What we’re devising is precisely the gray matter’s thought about itself, the gray matter’s own imagination of itself. That’s what we are, with the simplicity of a circle, ourselves, the gray matter’s own imagination of itself. How can an imagistic organ have images of itself? How can the gray matter, where thought is said to reside, think of itself, while the eyes cannot see themselves directly; we see everything through the brain, and yet we don’t see the brain itself?

If inside my mind there’s no extension and yet I can represent in any image I make the entirety of what I’ve seen, it’s simply because there is no Extension, the entire Universe is no more than a single point, or less even, it’s no more than an idea, an image in my soul.

This extension is what creates the illusion of plurality that isn’t applicable to the only reality of being: Sensibility.

I’ll stop here; I think these words could bring your sensibility to the abyss of being and from there to the recognition that everything is psyche, and thus immortal. Because I already insinuated, in my many attempts to move your melancholy belief in death, that I feel that the obstacle that dominates me, keeping my love for you from being the totalove that you deserve and which is reality’s entire worth, is this discrepancy that separates us: you believe that death awaits us, a termination of our persons and our love, and I don’t believe that totalove can flourish in beings who believe that they are fleeting.