I Suppose It Is Submerged Realities That Give To Dreams Their Curious Air Of Hyper-reality. But Perhaps There Is Something Else As Well, Something Nebulous, Gauze-like, Through Which Everything One Sees In A Dream Seems, Paradoxically, Much Clearer. A Pond Becomes A Lake, A Breeze Becomes A Storm, A Handful Of Dust Is A Desert, A Grain Of Sulphur In The Blood Is A Volcanic Inferno. What Manner Of Theater Is It, In Which We Are At Once Playwright, Actor, Stage Manager, Scene Painter And Audience?
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I Suppose It Is Submerged Realities That
W. G. Sebald
I Suppose It Is Submerged Realities That Give To Dreams Their Curious Air Of Hyper-reality. But Perhaps There Is Something Else As Well, Something Nebulous, Gauze-like, Through Which Everything One Sees In A Dream Seems, Paradoxically, Much Clearer. A Pond Becomes A Lake, A Breeze Becomes A Storm, A Handful Of Dust Is A Desert, A Grain Of Sulphur In The Blood Is A Volcanic Inferno. What Manner Of Theater Is It, In Which We Are At Once Playwright, Actor, Stage Manager, Scene Painter And Audience?
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