“It may be”, concludes Borges an essay focused on transcendent concepts “that universal history is the history of the different intonations given a handful of metaphors” we can merely repeat and never literally invent so as to subject our lives to some fundamental change.
And indeed it may be that humanity has no potential to annihilate the eternal return which confronts us with the most harrowing prospect of an endless recurrence of self-similarity; unable to tackle any godlike creation ex nihilo, man is virtually condemned to repeat himself life after life, partly aware of his effort’s futility but constantly engaged in those illusory distractions from time immemorial directed against consciousness.
Nothing eludes utter pointlessness from a cyclical perspective since all we can do resumes to interpreting, deconstructing, carnalizing what others developed already. Nothing essentially new exists.
Dose art thus count as a plain prop of personally induced deception?
Patricia Beykrat – the Roving Aesthete