Fausto’s kind are alone with the task of living in a universe of things which simply are, and cloaking that innate mindlessness with comfortable and pious metaphor so that the “practical” half of humanity may continue in the Great Lie, confident that their machines, dwellings, streets and weather share the same human motives, personal traits and fits of contrariness as they.
Pray no one breaks my heart, Kurt, for tears would ruin these old-fashioned eyes.
Uptown was a bleak district with no identity, where a heart never does anything so violent or final as break:
merely gets increased tensile, compressive, shear loads piled on it bit by bit every day till eventually these and its own shudderings fatigue it.
*R. Landfield – The Blue Whale
Alright, this time it’s on the topic of art as a quest of looking for a missing object (MacGuffin!). You remember Moby Dick, the major achievement of this genere, you might know Pynchon’s V, which is most clever as you can’t really tell if the precious, saught-after V was an object, a person or even an idea.
The point is that it’s all auto-referencial art, these are works of art that speak about art itself. Artists create those fictional worlds to tell you about their own amazing investigations, not some real, lost objects. I mean it doesn’t concern just people looking for something but it presents the essence of art, meaning artistic search for the perfect work of art. The one that catches this magical ingredient to the fullest extend.