Frodo had his Mordor, Batman had his Gotham City, J. Alfred Prufrock had his Floors of Silent Seas and I have … pages 14 and 15. But we are too far removed into our Hunt to retreat now and it is this I fear, that the elusive prey we seek may yet prove the end of me!
For it seems that the appearance of the Snark is always deferred somehow, always lurking on the very next page after whichever one you are reading right now. And when you have finished reading the very last page of this Snark, then I, the artist, and the author Lewis Carroll and the entire Fellowship of the Snark itself, we will softly and simply vanish away, leaving behind only you, the reader. Safely alone at last on the final page, you will turn away from the text and images and see yourself as you truly are, having fulfilled your destructive destiny — as the annihilating Boojum!
Don’t look so surprised, please, and no sudden movements, I’ve suspected you for some time now. It’s quite simple if you think it through, dear reader, the only logical solution to the Snark’s ever-retreating, ever-concealed identity is … you!
From whence come these paranoid thoughts? From a surfeit of the very blackest possible india ink? An overdose of Police Gazettes and Dr. Mabuse films? I know not … this snarkery is such a rum business, methinks I’ll need a whiskey-priest soon enough!
today's pic'o'the litter: strange fruit.
ReplyDeleteThanks, very … strange indeed. And rather hypnotic, actually! Perfect for the surrealist (or even heterorthodox) protosurrealist bar mitzvah!
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