ON THE CHARACTER OF ART
Art (and hence literature) has no gender; it is neutered and ambiguous. More than a ‘being’ it is a ‘being-able-to-be’. It is a perennial question that never gives an answer. It always asks questions, putting in doubt the sensitivity of those who would question it. It is ungraspable, unspeakable, a suspension, an altering of the logical rules proper to the kingdom of paradoxes - a contradiction that cannot do without itself. It lives through imitation, simulation, and fiction. The only form of sincerity that can be gleaned is that it does not deny the drama of existence, the tragedy of human life, precisely when it is called on to give an answer to these questions. But even if it managed to propose solutions, these would be impossible to realize in reality, because art is always a fleeing from real time, a temporal negation that, in order to affirm itself, annihilates the concept of art itself.