And so, the thought
comes to me, that to all these slaves of the Elsinore the Real is
real because they fictionally escape it. One and all they are
obsessed with the belief that they are free agents. To me the Real
is unreal, because I have torn aside the veils of fiction and myth.
My pristine fictional escape from the Real, making me a philosopher,
has bound me absolutely to the wheel of the Real. I, the super-
realist, am the only unrealist on board the Elsinore. Therefore I,
who penetrate it deepest, in the whole phenomena of living on the
Elsinore see it only as phantasmagoria.
Paradoxes? I admit it. All deep thinkers are drowned in the sea of
contradictions. But all the others on the Elsinore, sheer surface
swimmers, keep afloat on this sea--forsooth, because they have never
dreamed its depth. And I can easily imagine what Miss West's
practical, hard-headed judgment would be on these speculations of
mine. After all, words are traps. I don't know what I know, nor
what I think I think.
This I do know: I cannot orient myself.
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