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What shadow recrudesces around him? What bitter rebellion builds up into distorted moments and nullifies any perception whatsoever of objects as objects? Suddenly he identifies himself as a receptor of adulterated images, incapable of a concrete, singular, immediate encounter with the other. There were men all around him; his daily life was everybody’s daily life, seemingly; it had its moments of exaltation and fury, but there was solid and stratified time, and it was painful when a fickle impulse of flux manifested itself. He opened the window onto the small side patio. It was raining. And like all rainy days are gray, and gray was his sentiment when he woke up, he once more packed the past into a solid block. The morning had started a little while ago. From the Machado Plaza noises from vehicles. In the housestillthesilenceofthenight.Hedrankhiscoffeeandlitacigarette. He knew that a certain bitterness framed his features or should have. He still hesitated in recognizing expressions that revealed nothing or thoughts not articulated in form and meaning. What role was he playing? He went to the bathroom, urinated, washed his hands; in the mirror of the cabinet he still saw traces of his makeup. He could go to sleep. What was he looking for in sleep? What was he looking for on the stage? A way of being in the world, a way of being in the face of death? world. death. words? He clipped his fingernails too much; he tightened the belt of his robe, lit another cigarette. What kind of comfort or liberation was he looking for in the idea of suicide. Some kind of blackmail that he was actually doing to himself ? An irruption of the famous death wish? Did it really exist? Death wish oscillating between creation and destruction, binding the deepest depth of his condition, or the condition? He crossed the room several times, looked at the closet, the bed, the rugs. He opened the closet, looked over his clothes. Once again in the bathroom. The sink. The Samuel Rawet Moira 66 samuel rawet shower. The towel. The soap. A daily routine. The eternal routine. A sentence. The eternal sentence. The time. The flux of time. An instant . A fraction of what? Between the past and the future, the present, suffocated, compact, almost absent. Childhood. What was there of beauty in his childhood? Why now imagine what didn’t even come to be? The comparison. A dream that one could have dreamed, and which comes by way of what is seen? Or the nostalgia for a simple opening, the longing for a form pregnant with possibilities. If . . . if . . . if . . . Irresponsibility? The purely playful sense? Or the infinite responsibility of being in the world that offers itself to an agony in perpetual amplification? Would it be possible to capture the despair of a child in the face of the saturation and opacity of things? Would it be possible to imagine the contraction of the senses in the face of an organism’s pure fruition that affirms itself in its genesis? Of an organism larger than the epidermis? Of an unsatisfied epidermis in search of its form? He again becomes upset over the trouble during last night’s performance. The fatigue with the role was beginning to weigh him down. Four months playing the same guy by Albee, four months as the husband of the dean’s lover, four months of hearing the same tune. Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? In the middle of his lines he had become silent and began to stare at the audience. He wanted to see the audience. He wanted to become the audience. Actor and a man of the public at the same time. A symbiosis. An unreality produced by two beings in collision. Irony. To go the way of humor. To go the way of what? To be what one is, what one wants to be, and what one must be. Two realities? Three. The photograph album updated. A taste for order, for regularity, from time to time, a pleasure in following his career. To review an ascension or a fall. And the difference? He noticed that he was beginning to notice an ambiguous situation forged by observation. And he became afraid. In order to distract himself he sought refuge in his day-to-day life. And he ascertained that there was the place of his vocation. Not on the stage. Acting was spontaneous. Being something always ended up...


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MARC Record
Launched on MUSE
Open Access
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