The Hermit: 56

56.


I wanted to write the story of a metamorphosis. The story
is at least partly based on a dream I recall from the diary of
another writer. In the dream, which may not be a dream but
simply a vision the writer has while seated at his desk, an
image of a white horse appears on the wall. It is a white horse
that haunts the writer's mind. The white horse has escaped
its traces somewhere on an urban street. It is moving toward
the suburbs with an eye to the countryside. It is successful in
this movement because it progresses without hurry. It does
not gallop. It moves along the street with the gait of a horse
that drags a heavy cart behind it. The horse moves successfully
toward its liberation since it does not appear to be a fugitive.
My heart beats more quickly when I think about this story,
which I have almost certainly partially invented. The horse
hides its fear of slaughter. It plays a game.



Irony is a kind of secrecy. It is a principle of groups.